


Dragon Roar, Wolf Howl

by apolla



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Lyanna Is Alive, Alternate Universe - Rhaegar lives, F/M, Gen, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, King Rhaegar, Queen Lyanna, reaching for a happy ever after, the tower of joy is just a bad dream
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-13 09:07:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 51
Words: 129,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4516068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apolla/pseuds/apolla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lyanna Stark publicly spurns Robert Baratheon before they can become bethrothed, which ignites the interest of King Aerys. He decides that his son Rhaegar should marry the North, even thought it means setting aside Elia of Dorne, his wife of less than a year.</p><p>Winter is Coming, in Fire and Blood, but what makes a she-wolf is not the pelt, but the strength underneath...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Slammed Door They Heard In Essos

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DrHolland](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrHolland/gifts).



‘My being a woman is not dependent on you believing me to be _pleasing_.’

The Great Hall at Winterfell was quiet for a moment, then full of the clamour of hundreds of men talking all at once.

To reject one suitor was tasteful; to reject a second, choosy. Rejecting a third, and so publicly, was reckless. Rather, it was reckless for a woman. Try as she might to ignore the truth of it, Lyanna Stark was a woman and this was reckless.

It mattered not that her suitor had been incredibly insulting about her mode of dress, her attitude and her insistence on riding astride.

It mattered not that she dressed for the climate; that her attitude was that of the North itself; that she was a superior rider not just compared to other women but to the _men_ of the North.

Lyanna Stark was marked as “difficult” from that moment. The story became ever more exaggerated so by the time the story reached King’s Landing the tales was that Lyanna Stark screamed and threw a jug of mead over the hapless young man.

Still, it was that wildness that stirred something in the Mad King’s mind. Two ravens later, Prince Rhaegar was betrothed to the She-Wolf of Winterfell.

 

*

 

_King’s Landing, 279AC_

A sharp-tongued observer named it “The Slammed Door They Heard In Essos”. Prince Rhaegar’s reaction to his father’s unexpected, public pronouncement that he would marry Lyanna Stark was not in keeping with the young man’s usual calm, even detached, manner.

Only Queen Rhaella was better at keeping the King’s temper cool – and even then her success was inconsistent – but the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms did not care about angering the Dragon that day.

A flash of silver hair and scarlet cloak was practically all anyone saw as Rhaegar swept out of the Great Hall to rage and presumably break the news to his wife.


	2. In Winterfell - Eddard I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lord of Winterfell welcomes the King to the North, and a young lady who really ought to know better goes climbing and tears her dress.

_Winterfell, 300AC_

A light snow had been falling most of the day, but by the time the King’s progress arrived at Winterfell the sky had cleared, leaving behind a clear, crisp blue sky.

The Lord of Winterfell paced, his keen eyes ranging across everything to be sure that all was as it should be. It was all as it should be – he paused and scowled lightly.

 _Nearly_ everything was as it should be. Arya was missing, of course. Catelyn had hoped that the girl’s eleventh name-day would augur a change in the child as she grew increasingly towards womanhood and yet Ned was hardly surprised that his daughter was missing.

Missing, or merely in a place she really ought not to be? He cast his eyes higher and found her perched on the stable roof, looking out to where the royal caravan was wending its way towards the gates of the great castle. He hoped Bran would not see, for if he knew Arya was at a height, it would be beyond even Lord Stark’s power to keep both pairs of feet on the ground.

He watched Arya perk up.

‘They’re nearly here! Look!’ Ned’s heart was in his throat as her arms flailed excitedly and she slid a few inches down the roof.

‘Arya!’ Her mother’s voice cut through the air. ‘Get down at once!’

Arya obeyed only in the most technical sense of the word, and her dramatic slide down the roof onto the stable awning ended with a light thud into the hay below. She stood almost gracefully, but her dress was torn and her neatly plaited hair was now ruined by wind and straw.

This time the chiding came from the Septa, not Lady Stark. ‘Arya Stark! You will neaten yourself at once!’

‘But I won’t be here when they arrive!’

‘A fitting punishment,’ her mother cut in, her nod of approval for the Septa the final say on the matter.

The Septa pulled Arya away, and Ned was glad that his younger daughter at least had the sense not to fight back.

He took his place amongst his family as the King’s banner-men entered the vast courtyard at Winterfell. A large, finely-made wheelhouse clattered after it and after that, the shining white cloaks of the Kingsguard and with them, the King himself.

Ned heard Sansa sigh softly at his right and fought the urge to roll his eyes. She had such a romantic view of the world which had hardly been dented by troubles in her fourteen years. He had been glad of so many years of peace after the great tumult of his own youth, but now worried that his daughter was too naïve, sheltered, vulnerable. He would not have her swoon at the first half-handsome face she saw.

Still, even Ned had to admit that the Kingsguard were a sight to see. Headed by Jaime Lannister, who was as handsomely golden-haired as he ever had been and more awe-inspiring for his age and experience, the rest of the guard were barely less impressive. Ser Arthur Dayne rode alongside Ser Barristan the Bold. They were followed by younger members of the guard who Ned did not know, although he would recognise Renly Baratheon anywhere: The seed was strong in that line.

A pang of grief tugged at his heart, but he was used to those and they were ever-easier to ignore with the passage of time.

His gaze drifted briefly to his wife, stood beside him as a picture of serene highborn wifedom. Her red hair fair gleamed in the sunlight and it was all he could do not to reach for her hand. Catelyn had always been the balm for his emotional wounds.

The King himself rode into the courtyard of Winterfell on a powerful Northern courser with a coat darker than night. The red three-headed dragon of his sigil seemed to burst out of his black armour as if aflame.

The King was more impressive yet, a tall, thin man of legendary beauty. His long silvery hair near glowed against his pale skin. Not even the journey from King’s Landing could mar his magnificence and the assemblage knelt to him more through respect and awe than blind deference.

He dismounted gracefully and began to approach Lord Stark when quite suddenly he paused, turned and frowned. Even his frown was beautiful, Ned noted logically. He himself could not love this King, much as he truly admired and respected him. Too much had happened for that.

‘Where is she?’ the King asked, his voice loud without shouting; mellifluous and amused, if anything.

Ser Arthur, Ser Jaime and Ser Barristan shared an uneasy but hardly surprised glance between them.

The King laughed. ‘My apologies Lord Stark. I seem to have lost the Queen.’

Ned rose at the King’s gesture to do so. ‘I am familiar with the feeling, Your Grace.’

It was enough to break the ice between them – mostly – and they embraced briefly. Ned wondered if it was for the benefit of those gathered, for this King had always been good at creating moments for popular consumption. He would find out soon enough what had brought the King so far north, he supposed, and turned his attention to presenting his family to the King.

The King had kind words for Catelyn, admiring words for Robb, pretty ones for Sansa (who was fit to faint at having his purple eyes rest upon her) and sweet ones for Bran and little Rickon. He in turn presented his own household.

Formalities complete, the King turned back to his host. ‘I would like to visit your crypt, if I may. I have respects I must pay.’

Ned could not help the way his eyes narrowed or his lips twisted into a scowl. The King appeared to take no offence. ‘Of course, Your Grace. My lady, would you see to our guests?’

Lady Catelyn smiled tightly. ‘Yes, my lord.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may not have been expecting that...


	3. Asking Questions

Arya I

Sulking at having missed the arrival of the King, Arya did not go to join her family in welcoming their guests. Logically she knew that she was punishing no one but herself, but so often at home she felt like no one.

Once Septa Mordane _finally_ approved her appearance, Arya skipped out of her room, down the stairs and out of the keep. Avoiding the chaos in the yard, she slipped into the godswood. She had left her favourite present hidden at the Heart Tree, and planned to amuse herself until it came time to feast.

She was prevented from so doing by the figure knelt by the tree, a sheet of dark hair hiding her face. She wore leather breeches and a matching jerkin, and had a sword at her hip. A thick black cloak was slung over Ned Stark’s favourite sitting rock beside the pool.

Still, Arya had no cause for alarm or irritation, as the person she laid her gaze upon was one of her most favourite, dearest of people in all the Seven Kingdoms. She even loved her more than her direwolf Nymeria, the legendary Nymeria and _definitely_ loved her more than her sister Sansa.

She would not dare interrupt her at prayer and so Arya Underfoot, who most believed could not stand still or quiet for more than a moment, waited perfectly patiently until the woman rose up and turned.

‘Arya!’

‘You’re here at last! I was nearly mad with waiting!’

They embraced with all the fondness and affection of relatives who were bound by shared character and interests as much as by blood.

‘I have missed you, little She-Wolf.’ She threw her cloak back over her shoulders.

Arya’s heart swelled at seeing her aunt’s smiling face. ‘Not as much as I missed you.’

‘We will call it a draw, then. Now… why are you not with your family?’

They returned to the castle arm in arm and Arya told her story, which her aunt received with very badly concealed humour.

‘I would like very much to disapprove of you,’ she said, ‘but I am not formed for hypocrisy.’

‘Why were you in the godswood instead of with everyone else?’

‘It is too many years since I have been with the Old Gods here in our home, where they are strongest. I felt it only right to give them my first tribute. Do you think your father will mind being second?’

Arya shook her head. ‘No… but I know he has been waiting almost as impatiently as me!’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, but he’s much better at pretending than I am!’

‘He has many years more practice.’

Arya chattered at her aunt for as long as it took to reach the Great Hall.

‘Look who I found in the godswood!’ Arya was much too pleased to remember that she should not have been there in the first place, but her mother was too busy to scold her.

Despite the bustle of the hall, everyone stopped to bend the knee.

‘Welcome, Your Grace,’ Lady Catelyn said in her measured, well-bred way. ‘We are honoured to have you here.’

‘Home at last!’ While all present knew her as Queen Lyanna Targaryen, she was also Lyanna Stark and this was truly home. She shrugged out of her cloak. ‘I’d forgotten how warm it is in here.’

‘Mother, may I take Aunt Lya to her room? Please?’ Arya made her eyes as big and wide as she could manage, but Lady Catelyn knew her daughter too well to be convinced by her innocent ploy.

‘Allow Her Grace a chance to rest a moment, Arya. She may wish to greet her other nieces and nephews.’

‘Certainly I do!’ Queen Lyanna had exuberant hugs for all, and even swung Rickon around and made him laugh. ‘Where are mine own children? Did they abandon me as I slipped away from them, however briefly?’

Arya had taken her aunt’s cloak and draped it over her own shoulders, but the Queen was much taller and it pooled on the stone floor. From behind her, a pair of hands plucked it away and slung it over her face. All was dark for a moment until it was removed and she stared up into the laughing face of her cousin.

‘Jon!’

Their hug was as warm and affectionate as his mother’s had been. He lifted her up off her feet, only to have her snatched away.

‘My turn!’

‘Boys, Arya is not a gift to be handed around.’ The Queen was not to be contradicted on this point and Arya was returned to her feet immediately.

The riotous feast was fit for a King, and the man himself sat at the High Table with Ned Stark on one side and Lyanna Stark on the other. Arya was no longer in awe of the man she called uncle, and was more concerned with getting as many adventuresome stories out of her cousins as she could.

Ten year old Duncan was the noisiest of the royal princes and liked to hold court as a raconteur, so was in the middle of such a story: ‘…and Jon had to walk home with his breeches torn and-‘

‘Do not finish that sentence, brother,’ Jon interrupted mildly. He was usually the one to bring them back under control and his brothers mocked him mercilessly for it.

Duncan flicked a piece of bread at his older brother and flinched when instead, it hit Aegon. The eldest of the brothers stood and lifted him out of his seat and seemingly effortlessly, tossed him over his shoulder.

‘Your Grace,’ he called to their father. ‘I believe it is time for bed.’

The King nodded and turned back to his conversation with Lord Stark after wishing his sons pleasant slumbers.

It was the time in the evening where enough drink had been imbibed to turn the meal into something less refined, and although nobody dared misbehave openly in front of their dour lord, let alone in front of the King, the atmosphere changed as the young princes left.

Only a moment or two later, the Queen rose gracefully from her place. ‘Arya, Sansa, would you like to accompany me to my chambers?’

Arya did not generally like to leave such great feasts earlier, but her aunt’s suggestion was irresistible: it always meant pillow fighting and stories of the Stark siblings before bed. Both Stark sisters agreed immediately and trailed after the Queen.

*

Sansa I

Sansa was entirely perplexed by the King and Queen. Sometimes they acted like the other didn’t exist and other times they appeared to not like each other very much. It was not what the songs said.

The royal party had been at Winterfell for twelve days. Earlier that day, she had heard Aunt Lyanna call King Rhaegar a “complete and utter idiot” and “an old fool with stardust in your eyes”, and the King had retorted that she was the “most arrogant, stubborn harpy in the Seven Kingdoms” and that she should “get on your bloody horse and ride out to see if the Wildlings will take you!”

No, it was not what the songs said. Fortunately, after only that short time, Sansa loved her aunt so fiercely that she did not mind asking her about it.

It was late and Aunt Lyanna had promised to spend the night with Sansa and Arya telling more tales about her childhood before everything bad and sad happened, and the tales that Old Nan hold told about the North.

They settled down with pillows, rugs and furs in front of the fire in Sansa’s room. Lady was curled at Sansa’s feet, already sleeping quietly.

‘Aunt Lya,’ Sansa said. ‘Do you love the King?’

Lyanna’s brows furrowed. ‘That is a question with a very simple and a very complicated answer, sweet niece.’

‘What’s the complicated answer?’ Arya asked. She was snuggled so deeply into her furs that she looked more like Nymeria than herself, although that wolf would never have been allowed into Sansa’s room.

Arya had gone to King’s Landing the year before and spent ten moons in the Red Keep with the royal family and her dancing master, so she fancied she knew the very simple answer.

Lyanna settled down between her two much adored nieces, with her bare feet near the fire.

‘The complicated answer is that I live a life I didn’t want or ask for, would never have chosen for myself and occasionally makes to kill me.’

‘But!’ Sansa was so confused she could not speak.

‘I have never wanted to be a queen and I do not wish for it now. But I _am_ Queen because I cannot be myself without being that as well. The songs do not tell a whole story, dear Sansa, and so you do not know the truth.’

‘So,’ Arya challenged, ‘tell us the truth.’

‘Well, it’s a very long story.’

‘We don’t mind!’ Sansa found her voice at last.

‘Very well. Once upon a time, there was a Northern girl who thought she knew everything of importance but who didn’t really now very much about certain things.’

‘What things?’

‘Love, of course.’

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try to update regularly but I can't promise... leave any feedback and speculations in the comments!


	4. Wolfswood and Crannogmen

Lyanna I

_279AC_

At first, the going was so soft that Vhagar, the greatest Winterfell horse of its generation, could not reach a decent speed. It was a source of huge frustration for his rider, who desperately needed to gallop away turmoil of the heart and mind.

The young courser’s black coat was slippery and hot with sweat and his nostrils flared grandly as he heaved across the mud, his four long legs strong but unsteady. His mouth frothed a little at the bit of his bridle from the exertion rather than his rider’s pull.

The horse tired before the rage-fuelled rider. After some time at a steady but definite incline, brave and hearty Vhagar slowed to a halt and refused to move again until he had rested. He slurped at the snow for its cool refreshment.

‘Wimp,’ Lyanna Stark muttered at the steed, though not without fondness. She slid from the saddle and, after giving her horse a well-deserved carrot treat from her bag, slumped down onto a rock she suspected was so old that her ancestors of the First Men had themselves taken rest there.

She had been not-so-silently fuming since Ned’s friend Robert Baratheon had arrived to try his luck with her. Being neither an idiot or unobservant, Lyanna knew very well that her father intended to announce their betrothal and she had been willing to accept the political wisdom of the match even as she watched him out-Brandon Brandon with the women of Winterfell and out-drink even the Greatjon. A romantic young Lyanna Stark was, but she was not entirely foolish.

The choice was not hers to make, whether she liked it or not, and she would not disobey her beloved, respected father… until Robert Baratheon put his hands on her in the Great Hall in front of her family and friends, and slurred his desire for her to be _pleasing_.

Had Robert been better informed about her, he would never have used such a word; if he had been better informed about Starks in general, he would never have touched her. He was gone from Winterfell the next morning, dragging his sore head and battered ego with him, and only Ned was sorry to see him go.

For a short while, Lyanna was content that a disaster had been averted, although she did smart at the loss of the strategic union her father had been seeking.

‘So,’ she said out loud, though there was nobody to hear but the horse. ‘So…’

She had fled the castle as soon as she was able to that morning, a necessary choice after the chaos of the night before.

How was Lyanna to know that the Mad King would hear the story of the Stark Girl & The Baratheon Lord, and decide to shackle her to his own bloody son? Wasn’t the prince _married_? Regardless of benefit or not to Lyanna, she couldn’t understand why King Aerys considered it a useful match.

The possibilities stopped her heart beating for a moment and turned the blood in her veins colder than a night in the godswood ever could.

For a short while, Lyanna had believed she was safe in Winterfell just a little longer.

‘What do you think, Vhagar?’ she asked the horse. ‘Shall we like the South?’

He snuffled at the ground, quite cross with his mistress.

Would she like the south? She had no idea, but was at least not averse to the place in principle. Still, Lyanna Stark was used to the cold. it was as much a part of the formation of her character as her father, brothers or any other person at Winterfell.

She loved the cold but precisely because of it, she also loved to be warm. She loved the sun.

She didn't particularly like the sound of the South, where it was warm all the time. The southron summer sun sounded like a very different prospect to the sharp winter sun she knew.

The idea of leaving the North at all was unpleasant to consider. For all that, Lyanna was not stupid and she knew she would marry one of these days, although had hope for a little more time at home.

A wolf somewhere distant called to its mate. Lyanna shut her eyes and for a time sat and just listened to the sound of the wild woods around her. The birds, the animals, the breeze through the trees… she loved this place. It was familiar and beloved, but Lyanna was a liar if she denied a wish to see the rest of the world.

Lyanna wanted to stay at home but she also longed for adventures of the sorts written about in book

For all her father's political misgivings, a prince seemed as good a prospect as any other. With power came the possibility of a freedom she might not have as the wife of a lord. The stories about Prince Rhaegar being beautiful, intelligent and thoughtful hardly hurt his case; his being already married was a problem she refused to consider if only because it was out of her control.

Snow began to fall in fat flakes of the king that augured a real storm, so she reluctantly turned for home. It proved to be a wise choice: by the time she left Vhagar in the Winterfell stables, the snow was falling and settling fast.

Lyanna made a token attempt to tidy and clean up before going to find her father, but it was only a token, and she looked half-wildling when she strode into the Great Hall, where Lord Rickard Stark was hearing petitions with Brandon and Ned on either side. Lyanna observed that Ned seemed a good deal more interested in the goings-on than Brandon. Benjen was present, but was playing off to the side.

She waited for the petitioner to finish and receive his lord’s decision, then stepped up herself.

‘My lord,’ she called out so that everyone assembled could hear her. ‘I will be happy to marry the prince as our king commands.’

Brandon rolled his eyes. Ned's expression remained much as it ever was, as inscrutable and hard as the Wall. Still, he was her brother and she saw the minuscule frown in his brow. Benjen openly scowled to think he would lose his sister to another household so soon and so unexpectedly.

Lyanna felt tears prickle her eyes at the relief written across her father’s face. Had he really believed she would kick, bite or scream?

'I wish you every happiness, dear child. You will travel south with Brandon and Ned within the week.'

'So soon?' This was alarmingly quick, no matter her resolution to accept her fate.

Lord Stark nodded gravely. 'The King is not the sort of man one keeps waiting.'

Lyanna could not quite discern his exact meaning, and it seemed to matter little. She was going whether she liked it or not. Not formed for ill humour, Lyanna smiled brightly.

'I will be sad to leave my home, but a new chapter is always exciting.'

It was well said, but not quite sincere.  
  
*

Benjen would not be consoled. For all that Lyanna was half-boy in attitude and action, she was still the closest thing he had to a mother all these years, and to lose her was too much for the lad to bear.

The night before her departure, they curled up in front of the fire in her room and fell asleep there after reminiscing in great detail as only young children could do. The morning sun arrived too soon, and Lyanna was roused by punctual Ned.

‘It's all right, Ben,' she said brightly as she readied Vhagar to leave Winterfell. ‘It won’t be long until see you, I’m sure.’

She was mostly trying to reassure him, but also to divert her own attention from the very real possibility that she would never see home again. King's Landing was so very, very far away...

'I could become one of the Kingsguard,' he suggested, a little shyly. He had already mentioned the possibility of the Night's Watch. There was not much for third sons to do, after all...

'I'll let you know what the South is like first,' she said. 'After all, wolves prefer cooler climes.'

She embraced her father warmly, sad that he would not be travelling with her but understand. Since her mother's death, he had been loath to stray far from home, and she sensed that there was more to it even than that.

'Sweet child,' he said as they embraced. 'Take care in the South. The royal court is a strange, dishonest place, no matter how beautiful it may all look. Remember your lessons, remember our words.'

'My lessons? You mean Ben's lessons!' It was a long-standing joke that the Maester had been instructed to teach Benjen the lessons considered suitable for young lordlings, but that it was as much for Lyanna's benefit. No southron septas or needlework for the She-Wolf of Winterfell.

Rickard's eyes sparkled. 'Yes, of course... and Lyanna, remember that you will always have a place at Winterfell, always be welcome home. Winter is coming.'

His words had the hint of warning, and she did not know why. He helped her onto her horse.

‘Winter is coming,’ she echoed.  
  
*

The Starks and their retinue rode hard, not making concessions for feminine politesse, which Lyanna found unnecessary and therefore insulting. She rode astride as always, her leather jerkin and breeches more than adequate for the job. They pushed on throughout the days and rested through the nights, taking the hospitality of their bannermen where they could and camping where they couldn’t.

They rested two days at the ruins of Moat Cailin, the gateway to the North.

‘It’s all south from here,’ she said as they sat by the fire. The red and orange flames flickered and cast eerie shadows across the ruins, but she felt no fear.

‘How philosophical you are, sister.’ Brandon grinned and swigged at his ale. ‘I have always said so.’

‘You know what I mean, Brandon!’ she snapped back. ‘I am leaving the North now. I have never been so far from home as I am now. It’s all right for you and Ned: you’ve been able to travel. You’ve seen Riverrun and the Reach; Ned is more at home in the bloody Vale than the North-‘

‘That is not true,’ Ned disagreed. ‘Winterfell is ever my home.’

‘But you like Jon Arryn and _Robert Baratheon_ more than us!’ It was a sore topic, but Lyanna could not help but pick at it. ‘You would have me married to _that man_ -‘

‘It was not my idea, Lya. He is my dear friend but I would not have made such a match for you, I assure you. I know him too well for that, although I do believe he would have tried-‘

‘He was a _useful_ alliance,’ Brandon spoke almost in a whisper, for no matter how they trusted the knights of Winterfell, and how north they still were, it was never wise to speak of the political out loud.

‘For that I am sorry.’ Lyanna spoke true. ‘I am not sorry to miss out on a lifetime pretending my husband is not tupping half the Stormlands and drinking them dry.’

Ned had no answer to that.

*

Several days later, they were met by Howland Reed of Greywater Watch. He was small, like most of the crannogmen, but he had such a sense of brave dignity about him that his stature was not commensurate with his persona. Lyanna liked him immediately in the way kindred spirits often identified each other.

‘I have come to welcome you to the Neck, my lady… and to bid you farewell and safe travels.’

‘Thank you,’ she replied. ‘Eat with us, won’t you?’

Reed smiled a little and held up a brace of fresh caught fish. ‘It would be an honour.’

Over the course of the evening, Lyanna grew fond of Howland’s dry sense of humour and sense of honour and loyalty towards the Starks. He was a lot like Ned in some ways, and she was glad to see the two of them take up the conversation when she chose to leave it and swap it for sleep.

The next morning, she bid him a genuinely fond farewell. He bowed low to her and pledged friendship to her.

‘My allegiance is to the Lord of Winterfell,’ he said. ‘But if you should ever find yourself in need of assistance which I can provide, you will only ever have to ask.’

‘And where, my lord Reed, will I find you?’

His green eyes gleamed. ‘You need not worry about that, my lady.’

‘And now we must leave. Further south yet.’

‘Much more. I wish you all a safe, uneventful journey.’

*

At the Crossroads Inn, they gathered what news they could: Tywin Lannister had left King's Landing in a fury about something or other; Prince Rhaegar had not been seen at court for many a day; the King had burned some thieves and other transgressors.

'I do not like the idea of leaving you in such a place,' Ned frowned.

'Stay with me, then. Let Brandon traipse off to Riverrun for his new wife on his own.'

Ned's eyes crinkled in a secret Stark sibling smile and glanced over at his brother. Brandon was well attended by the women of the inn, including a younger daughter of a minor lord as she travelled to her own wedding. 'He would never get that far.'

'No, I suppose not.' Lyanna frowned at Brandon. Infidelity was at odds with the Stark way, she thought, and she had not expectations that her brother would be faithful to the girl to whom he was promised. 'I suppose you should keep an eye on him, then. I will be well.'

‘It is my dearest wish that you will be. I do not know how you will be happy with an already-married man who spends his time in the ruins of Summerhall with his harp? He is... all that house are touched with madness. I… I would trust you with Robert before them. He may not be perfect but you would not be mistreated.'

Lyanna considered him carefully. Ned rarely spoke such about anyone... but he also did not understand what it was to be a woman in a vicious, violent world.

‘You think not? I think mistreatment takes many forms. I would like to think I could expect a husband who is kind and supportive, someone I could respect. Is that really too much to ask?’

Ned glanced up to see Brandon retreating behind a door with two women.

‘I think it may be, but I hope I am wrong.’


	5. Preparation - Rickard I

Rickard I

The Lord of Winterfell had been ill at ease since receiving the King’s life-changing raven, but this had escalated into a quietly profound terror as he watched his eldest children ride out. If not for Benjen, he fancied he might have gone as mad as the King was rumoured to be.

While he was concerned about Brandon’s particular brand of wildness, he reserved the most part of his fear for beloved Lyanna so far south, in the mire of shit and villainy that King’s Landing had become, and so he kept largely to his solar where nobody could witness his anguish.

The Old Gods still held sway over the souls of the Northern folk, and the harsh landscape defined their physical lives. If Lyanna tried to live as a Southron lady, either the cold or wild creatures would've taken her long ago. Would she have any chance in the South? If she did not, Rickard Stark placed all the blame solely at his own feet.

For all that he was gruff, powerful, sometimes unyielding and possessed of a bluntness only descendants of the First Men could admire, he had never been able to deny Lyanna her wishes. Since her youngest days, she had sought to be like Brandon, like Ned, like himself. She had wanted to be a knight or a warrior.

His token, clumsy attempts to mould her into a proper lady had been hampered by the distinct lack of women at Winterfell. Had her much-loved mother lived, things might have been a little different, but Lyarra Stark was herself of the North, so perhaps not… Rickard shook those thoughts away with a sharp shake of his head.

The only other women in Winterfell were serving women and wives of banner-men and sworn shields... and Old Nan. Lyanna had hardly had a chance to become the kind of lady expected in the Crownlands. He had not expected that it would ever matter. How wrong he had been.

Sounds from the yard floated up to his open window. Rodrik Cassel was training the new recruits into Winterfell’s service. They were green young men and Cassel’s instructions were issued in harsh barks. Rickard smiled at the thought, and the memories of his own youth, alongside Cassel and their friends, then returned after only a moment of fondness, to Brandon, Ned, Lyanna and Ben.

The girl had fought to train alongside her brothers, although not as hard as most would have. Lyanna's charm and persistence with the likes of Ser Rodrik meant that she generally got her own way and in truth her childhood had been as if she were Benjen’s twin brother. Her horsemanship far outstripped her brothers, and by her tenth name day she was superior even to Brandon and her father. On Vhagar, Lyanna roamed far, wide and wild. Even if Lord Rickard was of a mind to curb her, he would have found it impossible, for there was no one to catch up.

Lord Rickard Stark was not of a mind to curb her. She reminded him of his wife, herself a North woman, a Stark: capable and brave, with a strong, good heart. He did not shield his women as the southron lords did, would not lock them away with embroidery and prettiness. He was the Warden of the North and valued strength and independence above any chivalric niceties.

He was too proud of his daughter’s skills, reminded proudly of her mother and Arya Flint, the fearsome mountain woman he called good-mother. Even now he shivered to think of that woman’s stony, oft-disapproving stare. Uncle Rodrik, the Wandering Wolf had considered him a good match but his wife had thought Rickard Stark a little too soft for her liking.

Rickard Stark, too soft! That was a rarely-heard accusation, yet in the case of Lyanna it was entirely true. Rickard missed his wife every day, but never so much as when Lyanna came to him in tears and pain, having flowered with no close woman to comfort her. Old Nan did what she could, but for the first time, Rickard had wondered if he should have bent to the new customs and brought a Septa to Winterfell for Lyanna. That thought had not lasted longer than a trice: the new gods had no place in the North and Lyanna would have made quick work of any unfortunate septa.

Still, Rickard worried for his sweet child, even though he had ensured her education had not kept her sheltered or ignorant. She had been taught histories and politics, knew the best way to defend herself from attacks large and small, expected and sudden; knew the dark ways of men even as she had been spared from the experience by her high birth. All of that was nothing compared to the vainglorious intrigues he knew kept the royal court crippled in fear, guilt and mistrust.

He heard Ser Rodrik bellow at the cadets to take a break and the silence that followed fitted neatly with the almost-peace he reached in his own mind: he had prepared Lyanna as best he could, and hoped that her natural sweetness and bravery would serve her well.

If not… well, winter was coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick bit before anyone reaches their destination...


	6. Summerhall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prince amongst the ruins...

Rhaegar I

Summerhall had been well named, once upon a time. The sun itself sparkled, golden light filling the air and the clear, azure blue sky.

He imagined it had been beautiful, once. How often had he ridden down to the ruins where he had been born amidst fire, pain and death, to conjure his own picture of the palace? In the vast expanse of his mind, Summerhall rose again far greater that it had ever truly been, without need of engineers or practical matters to get in the way of high ceilings made of dragonglass and towers that reached to the clouds.

His family was happy, in Summerhall. His grandparents lived, in Summerhall. His siblings lived, in Summerhall His mother smiled, in Summerhall. His father was not mad, in Summerhall.

The Seven surely knew that returning again and again to live a doomed daydream was all that stood between Rhaegar Targaryen and the crushing weight of his sadness, for they let him return again and again, to build his impossible daydreams amongst the rubble of the past.

He had only been at Summerhall for a day or so when Ser Arthur Dayne approached as he lay stretched out in the middle of the marble floor of the wrecked ballroom. It was not like him to disturb the prince, so it was surely of some importance.

‘I’m so, so sorry-‘

‘Fear not, Arthur. What brings you here?’

Ser Arthur glanced nervously around, never at ease at the ruins. He feared almost nothing but the unknown mysteries. ‘You have been summoned back to King’s Landing, Your Grace.’

‘Of course I have,’ he replied lazily, his attention still on maintaining his illusions. ‘I shall return soon.’

‘You really should come _now_ , Your Grace.’

Rhaegar sat up then, his anger rising. ‘I will come when I choose to.’

‘Please-‘

‘He cannot rule every move I make!’ The dragon in him was waking, and he was only dimly aware that he was taking his fury out on his friend. The daydreams were not yet collapsed and his grasp on reality was not quite complete. ‘I will return when _I say I return!’_

Ser Arthur sighed and, with a bow, moved away. Rhaegar lay himself back down but now only felt the discomfort of the stones beneath him, and the blue of the sky. Try as he might, he could not summon his mental creations to rise around him again.

Guilt was a common feature of Rhaegar’s life and had been ever since his father’s turn toward madness. He had loved his father once, but it had all been so long ago and so abruptly torn away. He felt guilty for so many things, and now that once-loved father had forced yet more onto his shoulders.

Was he supposed to feel worse about Elia, the bride he’d only recently taken, or Lyanna, the child about to be forced on him? _Forced_ was a word that sat uncomfortably in Rhaegar’s head, as it likely would anyone who had witnessed his father’s forcing of many a situation.

In the broken rooms of Summerhall, Rhaegar fancied he could hear his mother’s screams.

Could he run away to Essos, to places where silver hair and purple eyes were not so rare and responsibilities were a different prospect altogether, or to the liberation of Summer Isles or to the dangerous wastelands of Old Valyria? He could take Elia back to Dorne and then run-

He could no more run away than he could escape the truth of his own being. He was the product of fire and blood in the worst and best ways. He _could_ run to Essos but the guilt would wreck even the slim chances of happiness currently available to him.

There was no getting the illusion back, and he knew he would not be able to concentrate on music with Arthur’s message ringing in his head.

To King’s Landing, then.

*

Arthur had still been waiting for Rhaegar – knowing him well, of course – and though they had made good time from Summerhall to the Kingswood, a sudden summer storm had slowed their passage through the woods.

‘We should take care,’ Arthur said as the skies darkened again, although he referred less to the rain than other threats. ‘The so-called Brotherhood has been active again.’

They had stopped at the home of a minor Stormlord, who was well-used to hosting the prince on the way to or from Summerhall, and knew that the best way of hosting him was to leave him be. The Prince and Lord of Fawnton were well-used to each other by now, and the Prince knew that the Lord appreciated the compliment of a royal guest without the huge expense and chaos of a visit from the royal court.

So it was that Rhaegar and Arthur were well-fed and well-rested when they entered the kingswood in the midst of a storm. They found shelter in an abandoned hunter’s cabin and settled in to wait out the storm.

Arthur was a restless sort, and disliked being cooped up. Rhaegar was most contented when shut away in the quiet, and spent the time reading and re-reading the prophecy papers he had in his possession at all times.

 _The dragon must have three heads…_ _the prince that was promised…_

His head ached from the amount of information he would stuff into it, and from the heaviness of the warm rain in the air outside. He had so little time and so much to learn; he felt each moment in time slip away from him, most of them wasted.

At some point, when the hidden sun had definitely set, the candles were not enough light to read by without exacerbating his headache, so he took up his harp to play awhile.

Arthur smiled a little, but said nothing. Rhaegar knew that the good knight would never admit to weakness, but that music was definitely his.

‘I am sorry Arthur,’ he said, quite abruptly breaking the companionable silence between them. ‘For Elia.’

‘I do not take your meaning, Your Grace.’

‘I know you have loved her for many years.’

‘I am fond of her, but love is a different matter.’

‘You joined my father’s Kingsguard when-‘

‘Do not.’

‘You interrupt your prince?’ Rhaegar asked, though with gentle humour.

‘I interrupt my _friend_ before harsh words are exchanged.’ Arthur sighed and ran his hands through his hair – again. ‘I am so tired of this.’

‘Rest, friend. We have half the journey yet.’

‘I understand your fascination with Summerhall – I think – but there are times when I wish you’d found your place of solace somewhere closer to home.’

‘You think I go for solace?’ Rhaegar asked, blinking with confusion. ‘No Arthur, it is not solace.’

‘What makes you so… _sad_ , Rhaegar?’

‘Everything.’

‘It’s not healthy to live as such.’

‘I cannot change myself any more than I can rearrange the stars or make my father kind.’

‘No, I suppose not, but I would see you smile, my friend.’

Rhaegar began to play again, his long and graceful fingers finding the strings easily. He smiled then, just a little, for he could never be overwhelmed by melancholy when the music flowered.

And yet… he could not shake off a sense of cold foreboding. Quite why, he was not sure but his father’s sudden shift in plans could not be good.

Was he going to war with Dorne, the North, or both?

He chuckled then: surely he should be grateful just to make it to the other side of the kingswood intact?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think so far?


	7. Faces and Kings

Lyanna II

The Starks’ journey grew easier and easier as they moved south and the Kingsroad improved from the rutted track in the north. By the time they reached Hayford Castle though, they had been on the road for a little under three moons and were more than eager to reach an end to their journey.

No matter how welcoming their bannermen had been and eager to house them, and no matter how well the innkeepers and tavern wenches of the Kingsroad had catered to them (Brandon especially), every one of them wanted to be still for more than a day or two.

It was Lyanna’s fault, in a way. Had she been more ladylike and delicate, she would have needed more rest and would have kept a slower pace. This would have allowed the men around her to rest without showing weakness. Unfortunately, she was Lyanna Stark and once determination was set into her bones, she kept going.

The last rest of any significance had been three nights just to the south of the Isle of Faces. The pause was mostly because the horses demanded it, and just a little to give Lyanna a chance to visit the Isle of Faces.

Ned had rowed her over and kept a polite distance as she approached the many bone white weirwoods, their blood red leaves waving in the wind. For a moment, she had not known which way to turn. After all, in a godswood, there was but one heart tree.

She turned, overwhelmed by the carved faces that looked upon her with their terrible, twisted faces, until she found a single laughing face. Lyanna knelt in front of it and could not think what she wanted to say to the old gods, only that she wanted to.

‘I will not be close to you again for some time,’ she muttered. ‘The further from the North I get, the tighter I feel the cord between us get, and I pray that it does not snap. I only ask that-‘

Lyanna stopped. What did she ask? Father had always warned her not to trouble the old gods with trivialities or selfish concerns. Was it selfish to ask for happiness in her marriage, for safety and security? She closed her eyes and thought truly about the reasons why she had come to the Isle.

‘I only ask for help in my time of need, and for continued good health for my family. Protect the North. Please.’

The old gods did not appreciate false flattery or an excess of flowery language, so she said no more and instead bowed her head. A fresh breeze sliced through the leaves above and a nearly perfect leaf fell into her lap. She held it gently as tears prickled the backs of her eyes, though whether through some spiritual experience or fear of what was to come, Lyanna did not know.

She returned to her brother after a moment and they rowed away from the Isle of Faces in silence.

Now, King’s Landing was half a day’s ride away and they had been invited into Hayford Castle. Lyanna’s heart was in the pit of her stomach the whole night as Lord and Lady Hayford hosted them at a pleasant, low key, feast. She had eaten little and now, the night before her arrival in King’s Landing, she could not sleep.

It had been very easy to pretend she was brave and nonchalant while they were nowhere near the capital but it was now all horribly real.

She sat at the window of the finest guest quarters and looked down towards King’s Landing. In the night, the lights of the city were visible from Hayford’s elevated position, and she stared as if it would make the city familiar. Despite the hour, there were lights in the city, which she was certain was ever-awake, although what manner of business could be well conducted in the middle of the night, she did not like to think.

There was no way to make out buildings, but she fancied she could see the Great Sept of Baelor’s seven towers sparkling in the moonlight and lit from below by the lights of men; and the looming hulk of the Red Keep’s towers, illuminated by watchmen’s torches and windows of still-working castlefolk.

Come the morning, Lyanna had drifted into an uneasy half-sleep on the window seat and was woken from it by Ned.

‘Best get ready, sister. You’ll be entering the city as princess-to-be.’ Ned’s opinion on this point, he had kept to himself.

She did know that a dress had been packed for this moment, and knew she would not wear it. Instead she changed into her best leather riding gear, allowed Lady Hayford’s maid to wrestle her hair into a neat plait, and moved swiftly to the stables and mounted Vhagar.

Her companions were there, readying their own horses.

‘I am ready.’

‘You aren’t,’ Brandon said with a weary, hungover yawn. ‘I gave Father my word you’d enter King’s Landing as a lady.

Lyanna just laughed loudly, which made him wince. You gave your word, I did not. I’ll enter the city as lady: a Northern one.’

There was only one way to guarantee this plan’s success, and she prodded her horse to action. Her brothers were not even mounted and could not hope to catch up, but Martyn Cassel was and tried to keep up.

The breeze whipped at her face and hair. This was – she knew – the last time she would get to ride with such freedom and speed for some time, and she intended to enjoy it.

Her brothers finally caught up when she and Vhagar rested. There was no way to force her to change her clothes now, and Brandon served nothing but scowls to her.

As they approached the city gate, she held back with them, promising to behave, and her curiosity about the city’s sights kept her speed lower than she liked.

And then, she saw an open stretch of street leading up to the Red Keep, and with the mischief of the Children in her, Lyanna Stark took off in a gallop, leaving her brothers and companions behind in the dust.

She was going to arrive on her own bloody terms, thank you very much.

*

Rhaegar II

The Prince had been alerted that the Stark banners had been sighted as soon as they were sighted from atop the Keep’s towers.

‘They’ll be here before dusk,’ Arthur told him that morning. It was earlier than expected, and Rhaegar had not decided if this was good or bad. ‘A single rider was spotted this morning riding out from Hayford. A scout, most likely.’

Rhaegar went to the castle gate to greet them, not quite able to believe that in a short time he would meet his latest wife. He was astounded when the outrider stormed through the open castle gates, a tall, skinny girl with a dark braid of hair running down her back. She wore leather riding breeches and the same grin that he felt on his own face after a swift ride.

Behind her, mortified gatekeepers tore after her. They were likely terrified that they would lose their positions (or worse), but the Prince waved them away.

It could only be Lyanna Stark, after all, and he doubted she would do him harm on his own castle steps.

The horse was a magnificent specimen itself, the finest of the North, and obediently, neatly stopped in the courtyard at the foot of the steps. Well-trained castle grooms immediately approached to assist and within moments the rest of the Stark party followed behind at a more sedate pace.

He wanted to laugh at the way Brandon and Ned Stark glowered, but as she bent the knee, he could not. She was really still too young to be a wife and had nothing ladylike about her, but he felt he liked her immediately. He could well believe the girl in front of him was capable of spurning his Baratheon cousin as reported.

‘Lady Lyanna,’ he greeted her with as much warmth as he could summon – it did not come easy for him to appear cheerful in public, ‘You are very welcome to King’s Landing.’

‘Thank you… Your Grace?’

‘Indeed,’ he chuckled at her not quite knowing who he was. It had been such a long time… ‘Rhaegar of House Targaryen, at your service.’

‘Lyanna of House Stark. Here by royal summons.’ Her voice was clear as a bright bell, and behind her one of her knights coughed to hide either a groan or a laugh. ‘I apologise for my appearance, Your Grace. I could not wait a moment longer to meet my betrothed and could not imagine allowing a dress to slow me down.’

She was _teasing_ him. For a moment, his inner dragon snarled at such disrespect, but it was momentary, replaced by his own stronger humour. He understood her mockery was directed not at him personally, but a moment of awkward silence followed. How should he respond? He could not match her lest it be taken as a slight against the King – and a crowd had begun to gather to witness the occasion – but he did not want to criticise her either.

‘I am glad you are as eager as I, my lady.’

He took her hands in his own and helped her rise back to her feet, and kissed her hand as he had done many arriving ladies before. Where they blushed and swooned, Lyanna Stark just smiled.

He greeted her brothers and their company and when Brandon Stark tried half-heartedly to apologise for his sister, Rhaegar would not accept.

‘It has been the most memorable arrival in many years,’ he told Stark sincerely. ‘I believe I shall never forget how Lady Lyanna looked the first time I saw her. Come, you will be shown to your rooms, and then I know my royal father is eager to greet you.’

This was an understatement. King Aerys had been asking every day for a month whether the Starks had arrived. Rhaegar sounded light but was full of trepidation for what awaited. Would this odd and boyish girl bait his father, or amuse him? He prayed to each of the Seven individually that it would be latter scenario. The former did not bear thinking about.

Later, he took his place beside his father, who was bent over on the Iron Throne, and tried without success to judge the man’s mood. His father’s face was hidden under his unkempt, stringy hair and his long fingernails scratched against the sharp blades of the throne, drawing blood. His mother sat bolt upright next to the King, staring with unseeing purple eyes over the heads of the assembled court.

Rhaegar had become yet more worried over the course of the day, knowing how changeable his father was at the best of times. Being presented with an almost daughter-in-law who was not a dragon, and who did not look or act the part of a lady… it was more like a recipe for disaster than not.

Nor could he ignore the stares of courtiers. While most were just curious, there were those who felt slighted or insulted and they did not try hard to conceal their emotions.

Cersei Lannister’s green eyes glittered with bitter jealous rage, and he shivered and had to look away. She had remained in the city while her father had gone to Casterly Rock for a time. He had given an excuse about the management of his lands, but Rhaegar suspected he was still bitter at King Aerys' earlier rejection of Cersei for his wife. The prince rather wished she would take offence in the same way as her father had.

Oberyn Martell was in King’s Landing, and Arthur reporter it was entirely so he could get the measure of “Elia’s Replacement”. Rhaegar tried to catch his eye, but the Red Viper’s gaze remained fixed upon a point just above the King’s head. That was a situation which needed a miracle from the Seven to bring to a good conclusion, and he sent a silent prayer to the Father to give him the wisdom he would need in the coming days.

The more things changed, the more they stayed the same, and the Great Hall became claustrophobic, despite its high ceilings and length. The sound of chattering courtiers filled his mind, yet the sound of his father's nails scratching against metal remained at the front of his mind.

At the end of the hall, the doors opened and admitted the Starks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should say that I am writing this on the hoof so if you note any typos or such errors, do let me know. Concrit is always welcome, too.


	8. Presenting...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna is presented to the King.

Rhaella I

The Queen had been waiting for the girl for longer than anyone else. She had seen that her son’s heart was not truly touched by his wife – no matter how well they lived with each other – and had been waiting for someone to come along and grab it with both hands.

It would be a disaster for someone – she knew from bitter personal experience – but it would keep him alive in tough times, for it was the stuff life was made of.

She had not expected her brother-husband to interfere with the Seven-blessed marriage with Elia, although she could not be surprised by him any longer. Nobody suffered more since Duskendale than Rhaella, although she would not call her life before Duskendale fit for songs.

She had always, always wanted more for her children. More for Rhaegar, who lived; more for the others, who didn’t.

She had no idea whether the girl coming from the North would be anything to Rhaegar other than a political inconvenience and a healthy (gods willing) womb. The Stark girl need not be more than that, but as the Queen heard stories of Lyanna’s deeds and misdeeds, she rather hoped she would be.

Now, sat beside her king, Queen Rhaella kept her eyes fixed on the doors through which her new good-daughter would enter: she wanted to get the very first glimpse of the girl.

Rhaegar seemed uncomfortable, but he had never liked gatherings such as this and she knew how hard it was for her boy to see his father so incapacitated and yet so powerful. She bore fresh bruises on her back and her throne was uncomfortable, but Rhaella dared not shift lest she catch Aerys’ attention. He did not like her to fidget.

For once, she was glad that Viserys was out of her sight, because it meant her little child was out of his father’s sight as well. This moment was far too fraught, far too hard to predict, to put him in harm’s way.

As the doors opened, she took in a breath and gazed into the distance at the figures approaching.

This was it. Rhaella knew that more than a few lives hinged on the moments about to pass. She hoped the songs would be ballads, not dirges. Hoped, but dared not believe.

*

Eddard II; or Eddard I, The First Time

Ned Stark had hardly slept through a night since his father announced the royal betrothal that had hit the great and ancient House Stark.

Unlike his father, who was unaccountably soft towards his daughter, and Brandon, who was too much like her to see fault, Ned saw Lyanna as she was at her worst: spoiled, imperious, demanding and impetuous. No little girl could grow up as the little lady of a great house as she did and _not_ be like her. She did not consider consequences, she did not stop to _think_ and did not differentiate between minor matters and major ones.

Her appearance at the Red Keep had been a perfect example. While to all around it was now an amusing story and _wasn’t Lyanna Stark a character_?, the fact remained that his sister had almost ended up with a pike in her side or her head on a block for charging at the heavily-guarded fortress of the most paranoid man in Westeros, Essos and the Summer Isles put together. Maybe not the Basilisk Isles – they were odd down there.

She had dressed in the finest robe the North had to offer: a sparkling white gown that flowed around her, a silver-grey direwolf embroidered on the bodice with roses for decoration.

The dress had been their mother’s when she had married their father – there had not been time to prepare anything new for Lyanna, and Lord Rickard wanted her to shine in this moment. Ned had been surprised at the ease with which Lyanna agreed to be prepared for her meeting with the King, but grateful just the same.

Her long dark hair rolled down her back in soft curls, a sharply beautiful contrast with the dress. She held herself tall and confident as ever, flanked by Brandon and Ned, she moved forward through the Great Hall at a steady, determined pace.

He could feel that plenty in the Hall would kill her if they had so much as half a chance, and the many hours of missed sleep weighed heavily on him. He was pleased to see Jon Arryn there, and allowed him a small smile of greeting as they passed.

The Hall was almost silent, for nobody dared whisper a thing until the King had responded. Even the Queen and the Prince looked on with some nervousness, although they hid it better. Only the bald, sly looking fellow Ned assumed was the Master of Whispers, seemed to be at ease.

Lyanna curtsied lower than he’d ever seen her manage before, so low that her knees touched the floor.

‘Rise!’ The King’s voice was a hissed whisper that somehow seemed to fill the Hall. ‘You are Lyanna of House Stark.’

A pause. Was Lyanna supposed to reply?

She did anyway. ‘I am, Your Grace. It is my honour to come here at your kind invitation.’

Since when did _Lyanna_ speak to anyone like that? Ned almost felt like he could start exhaling a breath he’d taken in Winterfell.

‘You are no dragon! What makes you worthy of my son?’

‘I do not presume to know the wisdom of Your Grace’s majesty.’

‘I am told that she-wolves are vicious creatures who bite their masters.’

‘Not if they are treated well, Your Grace.’

Oh gods, that was the kind of snap remark that was characteristic of Lyanna and which would get her killed. That said, she had delivered the line so sweetly that only a madman could take offence…

‘You will marry my son three days’ hence,’ King Aerys told her. His left hand caught one of the throne blade and he winced. For someone who would not allow a blade near his hair or nails, the King did not seem to mind the payment his throne extracted from him.

‘As you wish, Your Grace.’ She curtsied low again.

‘You will give us our dragons, Stark.’

‘As you wish, Your Grace.’

‘The dragon must have three heads!’ he said.

Ned did not miss how Prince Rhaegar’s previously calm gaze narrowed at his father. Presumably the Prince did not like having such matters discussed so openly, which spoke well of him, of a sort.

‘Your brothers will return North after the wedding,’ The King proclaimed. ‘We have no need for more wolves this far south.’

Ned kept his gaze fixed respectfully ahead; did not dare look to Brandon, who was on a knife-edge as it was.

‘As you wish, Your Grace.’

‘Leave us now.’

‘As you wish, Your Grace.’

Lyanna rose again and twirled in a swish of skirt and walked out as confidently as she had left it, the eyes of every man and woman on her. They all stared, but only Ned saw the twitch in her hand that spoke to her internal terror.

He had never been so proud of his sister in all her life. He escorted her to her rooms in the Maidenvault, kissed her cheek and let out the rest of the breath. She might just live.

‘Gods Ned,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve never been so scared. Not ever.’

‘You did very well, sweet sister.’ He offered her a smile he did not wholly mean.

‘Yes,’ Brandon now interrupted. ‘You were the finest girl that place has ever seen. And now, I will leave you until we eat later.’ He strode away, to gods knew where, although guessing would be easy.

Several fat tears escaped from Lyanna’s eyes and rolled down her face. ‘He…’

That short word could mean so many things and get them into so much trouble.

‘He is a fine prince,’ Ned finished for her. ‘I am sure you will be happy here.’

_The King is quite mad and you’re right to be afraid._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've got this far, I surmise that you've enjoyed it so far... drop me a comment if you like!


	9. The Genius of King Aerys, Second of his Name.

Aerys I

They all thought him _oh so mad_ , but he would show them all. What a plan he had put in motion! What a way to declaw the wolves of the North, what a way to pull the rug out from under the Red Viper and his brother in Dorne.

Oh, they all thought him so mad, but he had found a way to stop them all. He would burn every single one of those who moved against him. He would watch the flesh melt from their bones as they, still living, screamed for mercy that would not come.

He had waited for years and years for his wife to provide a wife for their son but she had failed him. The maesters had failed the children who lived only to die. Everyone had either failed their king or would fail their king soon.

Aerys was tired of them all. He knew Tywin wanted his daughter married to Rhaegar, but he had loved Joanna more than anyone knew, and would not put her daughter in harm’s way, and King’s Landing was a festering sore of a city, and would only get worse until he cleared it of evil and corruption.

It was going to be a hard trial and there would be much pain, but Aerys, Second of his Name, was determined. First task was to shackle the North to him with the only daughter of House Stark.

They all thought he was _mad_ , but Aerys knew that history would know him as a visionary leader. Oh yes.

*

Lyanna III

Lyanna would have enjoyed a visit to see the rest of King’s Landing, but she did not have a chance to leave the Red Keep before her wedding. There was no time to spare: nobody had expected the king to give only three days’ notice and there was much to do in order to ensure that the wedding extravaganza was fit for a Targaryen prince.

It did not help that since meeting the King, she had hardly slept. Every time she closed her eyes, his narrowed purple eyes were there, watching and waiting for her to make some misstep of his own devising. She had heard shrouded references to moments where thieves had been burned alive for the crime of stealing food and knew only too well how her big mouth might get her into trouble.

Lyanna had been given a grand room in the Maidenvault that had a very pleasing view across Blackwater Bay, and when not being poked or prodded for beautification or measured and pulled around for her wedding dress, there was not much to do but stare out across the sparkling water.

After an untold and unbearable period stood frozen on a box while seamstresses fitted the dress directly onto her – there was no time to do otherwise – Lyanna’s patience was worn. Her feet were in the grotesque stage of being almost-numb but not quite. Her back had seized several times from being held so still and upright, and she was getting dizzy from a lack of food and water.

How was it that she could ride for hours but could not endure this? It was nothing in comparison, and yet she could take no more.

‘Might we please have a moment’s rest?’ she asked, hating how shrill she sounded.

The gaggle of seamstresses and assistants surrounding her were aghast. She could not and would not blame them – at least _she_ didn’t actually have to produce the damned dress from nothing – but she could take no more.

Her legs buckled anyway, and a tiny woman with a measuring tape suddenly found herself in possession of a Stark.

‘Let’s set you down, m’lady.’ She helped Lyanna into the soft armchair near the window and immediately the pain in Lyanna’s feet throbbed harder now the weight was gone from them.

‘Just for a short while. I shall be all right soon.’

‘We have enough for now, m’lady.’

‘I do not want you put to trouble on my account.’

‘No trouble, m’lady.’ This was most likely a lie, but Lyanna was not of a mind to embarrass them or inconvenience herself by saying so.

The sewing ladies bustled out of the room and Lyanna took several deep breaths before the inevitable entrance of more people. It was, to her surprise, The Queen’s party.

Queen Rhaella was an obviously broken woman who looked much older than her years. She was a dragon whose wings had been smashed by a life of mistreatment and pain. She was undoubtedly regal of poise, and her purple eyes were shrewd, but physically she was little more than a skeleton with very thin, pale skin. Her long silver-blonde hair was arranged in an artful and intricate Southron style but she did not glow with beauty as she ought.

Prince Viserys tagged along with her as he almost always did. He was a small and nervy little creature who his behind his mother’s skirts and looked out at the world from under a sheet of silvery hair.

Two ladies accompanied them, one of them the young maid Leyla Hightower and the other an older lady, a Florent by the ears on her. Lyanna greeted them politely and called for tea.

‘Your Grace.’ Lyanna leapt from her chair to curtsey but immediately regretted it, for her legs were like water.

‘Sit down, child, and rest. It is no consolation now, but three days’ of this is far greater than many months.’

‘Yes, Your Grace.’ Lyanna did not agree. Besides the hectic preparations, she was keenly aware that she had been in company with her betrothed for no more than an hour in total, and no more than a few minutes alone with him. She had barely had time to consider who she was marrying, and had forced herself not to consider what would happen once she was married.

Nor, she admitted silently to herself with a shiver, had she considered what might be happening to the woman she was replacing. She cared, but had only enough space in her mind for the most urgent of concerns.

While her ladies, took up positions away from the window, Rhaella took a chair near Lyanna, and instructed Viserys to play at her feet. He had two small carved wooden dragons and took to playing without hesitation.

‘Rhaegar was my only consolation for so many years,’ the Queen started without any small talk. ‘I have lost many children, but not Rhaegar. He is special indeed, and not just to his mother. He is the first of his name, a prince with the pure blood of the dragon and a great weight upon his shoulders.’

How did the Queen want Lyanna to reply? Not knowing, Lyanna said nothing and looked down at her hands where they settled in her lap.

‘I have always wanted more for my children that they have,’ Rhaella said. ‘They have a great deal, of course, but I do not speak of golden dragons or kingly power. I want my children to love and be loved. As once I was.’

Lyanna had been told that Queen Rhaella had been in love with a knight when she was young, but even the brave she-wolf did not dare ask her about it. Dared not, or rather would not intrude on a stranger’s personal life.

‘I cannot promise what I do not yet know, Your Grace. I promise to try.’

‘Try?’

‘To love your son.’

‘Try? You cannot try. You will, or you will not.’

Lyanna did not disagree. ‘Perhaps if I could spend more than a moment or two with him,’ she venture. ‘I can hardly love what I do not know.

The Queen sighed delicately. ‘Some would say the opposite. Now, what manner of girl are you?’

‘Your Grace?’

‘Steady or fickle? Petulant or patient?’

‘I am not the best judge of myself.’

‘Does anyone know you better?’

Lyanna took the bait and her mouth ran away with her: ‘I am honourable. I am kind. I am quick to anger and bossy. I am used to getting my own way. I am the finest rider in the North. I am amusing and affectionate. I am _not_ pleasing.’

Rhaella’s only reply was to stare out of the window and all that could be heard was the sound of Viserys’ wooden dragons clunking against each other and the floor.

‘I do not know you well enough,’ the Queen finally spoke and looked Lyanna in the eye, ‘to know if you will be a good wife for my son… but I do not think you will be a bad one. Be wise, be prudent, be aware. The Red Keep is not safe or warm. The residents are not honourable or kind and above all things: trust only yourself. Even then, do not believe everything you tell yourself. ’

‘Yes, Your Grace.’

Rhaella rose up as gracefully as a Queen should, and Lyanna followed suit with a better curtsey than her greeting.

‘Come Viserys, we must visit with your father now.’

Lyanna saw terror in Viserys’ eyes. He was too young to quickly mask his feelings.

Rhaella took Lyanna’s hand in her bony ones for a moment. ‘Lyanna, I hope I will visit you very soon.’

‘As do I, Your Grace. I am honoured.’

The terror in Viserys’ eyes was matched in his mother’s for a moment, tempered only by the weariness of experience. After the Queen, the Prince and her ladies had left, Lyanna returned to her chair and sent a series of prayers up to the old gods that Rhaegar Targaryen was nothing like his father.

She would have to actually spend some time with him to discern the truth: It was not enough to know that he was beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this has been awhile in coming... I have a lot written now so hopefully I can get posting regularly, or writing longer chapters.
> 
> Let me know what you think - any suggestions or requests are gratefully received!


	10. Wedding's Eve

Brandon I

Over-busy, ever-noisy and foul-aired it was, yet Brandon Stark could admit that King’s Landing had some attractions. For a start, he enjoyed not having to wear six layers of clothing just to go outside, and he greatly appreciated seeing the same was true of the opposite sex.

He had a short time before going down to the wedding’s eve feast, and found himself in his impressively decorated room with little to do. There was rather too much in the way of dragon-related décor, and he found the fresco of the Dance of the Dragons a little too overwhelming for a room intended for rest.

Not that he had any real notion of resting much. The capital folk were simpering and weak when next to the Northmen, but that was no surprise, and gave him a definite advantage over those who surrounded him in their velvets, silks and Myrish lace. Even against the Kingsguard he had little trouble: He had gone up against the Sword of the Morning in the training yard and done creditably well. The greatest knight of their generation had had to work hard, and while Brandon was not a man who liked losing, he knew that holding Dayne to such a narrow victory was a victory of his own.

Against Ser Arthur’s utterly bamboozling sister Ashara, he had a similar level but different sort of success. They were introduced to each other on that confusing first day, but he had been instantly captivated.

Attitudes towards sex were more complex in King’s Landing than in the North. At home, a maiden’s virginity was protected, valued and the loss was serious, no matter who she was. In the South, it seemed to Brandon that only noble ladies’ virtue was valued and protected as such, but to an extreme level not seen in the North. Lyanna would have run away to Essos had she been placed under the restrictions in place for highborn ladies in the South.

Lowborn and smallfolk were less fortunate, and he found the brothels in the Landing a more distasteful prospect than those in Winter Town or the Riverlands. There it had seemed like straightforward and honest work. Perhaps he was fooling himself and a brothel was a brothel was a brothel…

Whatever the truth of that conundrum, which was not in his interests to unpick, Brandon was determined to protect Lyanna until the moment she wed Prince Rhaegar. King’s Landing was a terrible place in truth, with all men out for what they could get. Brandon admired that, even as he despised it.

‘Brandon?’

He was disturbed from his deep thoughts by the arrival of Ned at his door.

‘Come in. What ails you, brother?’

Ned’s face was stonier than usual, and decorated with a furrowed brow and pain in his eyes. ‘Ashara Dayne.’

That was uncharacteristically direct and personal for Ned, a young man who had grown up far from home and who took the Stark penchant for tenacity and honour to the greatest possible degree.

‘What about Ashara Dayne? As if I could not guess.’

‘She is… intoxicating. I want to-‘

Brandon smirked and reached for the wine and biscuits kept plentiful by the royal servants. ‘I can imagine what you want to.’

Ned scowled at his insinuation but took the glass of wine his older brother held out. ‘I want to… _speak_ to her… but I… Help me!’

‘Talk to her as if she was Lyanna.’

‘She is not my sister!’

‘No, but she’s a girl. Just as Lya is a girl.’

‘She is far beyond-‘

‘Gods Ned, you have been hit by a thunderbolt, it seems! Never fear, your beloved, wiser brother will help.’

For some time, Brandon gave Ned the benefit of his extensive experience with women, including Ashara herself, though he did go into the particulars of that, or what he hoped might follow. Or rather, what he hoped would follow unless Ned succeeded, in which he would step aside and Ned would never know.

If he was going to marry Catelyn Tully, he might as well let Ned try his chances with Ashara Dayne. At least the Dornish were not like the rest of the South.

*

The royal feast on the eve of the wedding was a raucous affair, likely due to the King’s absence. Brandon enjoyed the interested looks he received for being the Princess-to-be’s older brother – it was even better than the attention he got for being the future Lord of Winterfell.

The feasting hall was full of all the representatives of the Great and noble houses that had been able to reach King’s Landing in the short time since the betrothal and the handful of days’ notice the King had given for the wedding itself.

The Starks were given places of high honour near the royal family, and from there Brandon could watch the rest of those present.

Olenna Tyrell was holding court at a table across from him, surrounded by the rest of the flowery folk who hardly dared to interrupt, let alone contradict, that fearsome lady. Her son Mace looked around nervously, always on the hunt for someone more powerful to woo or someone less powerful to disdain.

Brandon recognised various sigils: Shermer, Tarly and Ambrose from the Reach; Blounts and Celtigars and Masseys from the Crownlands. Lord Hayford greeted him warmly: they had become fast friends during the Starks’ brief pause before arriving in King’s Landing.

There were others, so many others, but he did not care to notice them all. He kept an eye on Lyanna, stuck at the High Table with the royals even now that eating had been set aside for drinking, dancing and general merriment.

He had one real target. Lovely Ashara Dayne was sat between her knightly brother, who even now seemed to be more guarding the prince than anything, and scowling Kingsguard, Dornish Prince Lewyn Martell.

Ashara was also considered the great beauty of their generation, and Brandon considered the epithet well-deserved. It was not just the composition of her face or neat turn of her ankle, but the sparkle of mischief in her eyes and the seduction of her smile.

‘I wish I could dance with her,’ Ned mumbled from his place at Brandon’s side.

‘I will ask her for you later, brother.’

Ned turned the colour of winter beets. ‘No, I-‘

‘Yes, yes!’ Brandon stood but Ned seized him.

‘Do not! I couldn’t-‘

‘Fine. Just let me go. I need to piss.’

Having done what he needed to, Brandon returned to the hall and found himself quite near Ashara. Quite by chance, of course.

‘My lady,’ he greeted her with his second-most dazzling smile.

The Starks had never really been known as smilers, but Brandon’s grandmother Arya was a Flint and those mountain folk had a fine line in smiles. Arya Flint’s smile had been what attracted Rodrik Stark to the woman, who had been otherwise entirely hidden under thick furs at the time.

‘Lord Stark.’ Ashara made a show of averting her gaze but purple looked up at him through dark lashes.

‘You look very beautiful,’ he told her, and he was sincere.

Next to her, Arthur rolled his eyes. She elbowed him and then ignored him entirely.

‘I am here to treat with you for a dance with my brother Ned, my lady.’

‘I will be happy to, if I might also dance with _his_ brother.’

Arthur coughed noisily, and Ashara patted his back with a sisterly thump. Brandon turned on his very best smile and led her into the centre of the hall where dancing had begun.

‘Your sister looks lovely,’ Ashara noted as they danced. ‘I believe the Prince and she will be very happy-‘

‘You don’t know that,’ he snapped, brotherly instinct momentarily stronger than seduction. ‘I am surprised you are here this evening, for you must surely be outraged on behalf of Princess Elia.’

‘For the slight against her? Certainly I am. For the freedom from… things? I am grateful even though it puts your sister in a more precarious position.’

‘Truly?’

Brandon knew the king was mad and his rule was often brutal. Would he inflict harm upon Lyanna? His fury kindled, Brandon fought back a snarl. If the King hurt Lyanna, he would bring the glacial fury of the North down upon him.

‘Rhaegar will not allow her to be harmed, my lord. He is the best of men.’

‘But-‘

‘All will be well. I can ask my brother to reassure you-‘

‘I need only reassurance from you, sweet lady.’

‘Come now, _Brandon_ , do not couch your meaning. I know what you want from me. I am of a similar view, but first I must dance with the younger Stark.’

‘Do not lead him on, Ashara-‘

Her eyes narrowed angrily and her grip on his hand tightened momentarily. ‘What manner of woman do you believe I am, Lord Stark? I am not _engaged_ …’

The music swelled and he turned her accordingly.

To his credit, Brandon flushed red. ‘I would wish for a different plan-’

‘Wishing solves nothing.’

The song ended and he watched Ashara as she swayed over to Ned, whose eyes went wide at the sight.

‘Have you a question for me, my lord?’ she asked him loudly, so others might hear.

Brandon was immensely proud that Ned managed to request a dance and incredibly jealous – and surprised to be – as they danced together. Ned’s hands remained in their appropriate positions, but to see the younger Stark in a place he wanted for himself was a curious, unpleasant emotion.

His attention was diverted by Lyanna and his heart clenched with guilt. He should have spent more time with her – she was practically alone where she sat at the High Table. Too distant from Rhaegar to speak, she was next to Oberyn Martell, who had chosen to ignore her in favour of conversation with Jaime Lannister.

The Lannister boy had been sent to King’s Landing so Lord Tywin did not completely offend the king with his house’s total absence. The golden haired youth was young and handsome, but Brandon knew Oberyn would’ve given all his attention to anyone if it meant he could ignore Lyanna to make a point about Princess Elia. Still, at least the Red Viper hadn’t poisoned her…

‘Lyanna, might I dance with you?’ the relief on her face was obvious as they joined the dance, which only made him feel worse for concentrating so much on his own wants. Gods, she looked as young as she really was. He forgot how much younger than him she was, sometimes. When she was on a horse, she was not a child and yet now… was he leaving a child in a place where even grown men struggled to survive?

‘You looked bored,’ he said eventually. It had never been difficult to talk to Lyanna, even when she was little and curious about things she ought not to be.

‘I am bored. I don’t like this sort of thing.’ She wasn’t stupid enough to complain about the people or the situation, but he had known her all her life and the meaning was clear.

By the end of the dance, Prince Rhaegar had departed and Lyanna took the chance to escape to her own rooms. Brandon watched her go feeling like he was entirely ineffective as a brother, but he was not the sort to wallow in darkness and soon had Ashara on his mind.

Her brother had also left, leaving her without an escort.

‘Lady Ashara,’ he said, best Flint smile in place, ‘allow me to walk you back to your rooms. I would hate for any harm to befall you.’

‘How conscientious you are, my lord.’

*

Rhaegar III

The Crown Prince spent the night before his second wedding with Ser Arthur Dayne. After leaving the crowded, noisy feast, they took several bottles of the best Dornish wine and hid away at the top of the White Sword Tower.

‘If the Lord Commander finds us here, he’ll string me up,’ Arthur said, not for the first time.

The sun had long since set and the two of them were keeping warm with the practical application of wine.

‘I don’t want to be king,’ Rhaegar replied, as if Arthur had something else entirely. ‘Never did.’

‘I know. I didn’t really want to join the Kingsguard either. Even knights and kings may have to set aside their dreams.’

‘Knights and kings most of all,’ Rhaegar laughed unevenly. ‘The dragon must have-‘

‘Three heads. I know. You’ve said.’

‘She is pretty, at least.’

‘Who?’

‘Lyanna Stark.’

‘Oh, yes. I suppose. I would say she is still young.’

‘I haven’t seen her for more than five minutes since she arrived. _All_ I know is that she is pretty. It’s not a lot, is it?’

‘She’s brave too. Her arrival showed little fear.’

‘Yes, I suppose. Spirited too, if that was any indication.’

‘Quite witty.’

‘Yes.’

‘Kind, she was very kind when she met your brother.’

‘True.’

‘And she seemed truly interested in what your mother had to say-‘

‘She’s pretty, brave, spirited, witty-‘

‘I said quite witty.’

‘ _Quite_ witty, and kind.’

‘But other than that, you have no idea what she is like?’

‘Quite so.’ Rhaegar drank deep from the bottle once more. It had been a lot time since he had drunk wine directly from the bottle and it just seemed so much more reckless than drinking the same amount of wine from a glass.

He was not a reckless man. He would not have lived this long had he been, but this was a time to cut away from his character.

‘But other than that, you have no idea.’

‘Arthur, I don’t know her! All of it could be a complex mummers’ show.’

‘Like Cersei Lannister!’

‘Quite so. At least I knew Elia before our marriage.’

‘Yes.’

Silence. Stars twinkled above them.

‘Is she well, Arthur?’

‘Couldn’t say.’

‘Couldn’t or won’t?’

‘Both, Your Grace.’

‘I understand.’

‘I hope you do.’

‘I will make things right as soon as I can. You do believe that?’

*

Arthur I

Arthur hated leaving Ashara to the devices of Brandon Stark and anyone else who fancied his chances with her, but when one’s prince calls, one follows.

He did not worry particularly about Brandon Stark – didn’t _trust_ but didn’t fear – although Ashara’s own habits had always been a concern. Even in liberal Dorne, he had worried that she would choose the wrong person to gift her trust.

Prince Rhaegar had been wilting at the feast, so Arthur hardly minded leaving the feast with its politicking lords and simpering ladies, and took his prince and several bottles of finest Dornish red to the roof of the White Sword Tower. It had been quite a pleasant way to pass a few evenings, and if it irritated Jon Connington tomorrow, so much the better.

It was Rhaegar’s sudden dawn wish to go riding that bothered him. Rhaegar was uncharacteristically drunk and it was no time for a very recognisable prince to ride out. Still, the prince was unaccustomed to being told “no” and was in an sullen, intractable mood – put there no doubt by thoughts of what the dawn was bringing – and so Arthur followed him, hoping his prince would not ride too eagerly into mischance.

Arthur would hardly put it past Rhaegar in his present uncertain, bleak mind-set, to keep riding until he reached those bloody ruins…

Fortunately, Rhaegar had no such plan. They rode to the Blackwater, away from the docks and beyond the stinking sewers, further upstream where all was pleasant.

‘What in Seven hells!’ Rhaegar yelled. He slid unsteadily off his horse and marched to a figure sat on the rocky riverside.

Arthur was behind and did not see at first what had caused his prince such agitation. Then, he saw Ser Oswell stood nearby, looking as harried as he felt: Lyanna Stark was here, her bare feet in the water.

He kept a respectful distance but could see Rhaegar was concerned – not angry, he could tell – and Lyanna Stark hunched her shoulders defensively and would not look up at him

‘I couldn’t stop her,’ Oswell told him.

‘Nor I with him.’

‘I really thought she might try to climb out of her window otherwise.”

‘They deserve each other.’

‘I hope so.’ Oswell had meant it in jest, but Arthur was entirely in earnest. He dearly wanted Rhaegar to find someone fitted to him. Arthur loved and respected Princess Elia enough to know she was not truly fitted to Rhaegar, or he to her.

What would actually happen to Elia was still worryingly unresolved, but he was not unhappy that his friend and his – Elia – being unshackled.

Rhaegar sat down beside Lyanna and Arthur smiled when Rhaegar took her hand and spoke softly to her. Kindly too, he could tell.

It might all turn out for the best. If it didn’t, then that was what Dawn was for.

*

Lyanna & Rhaegar I

‘I am sorry, truly,’ Lyanna said, looking up at the Prince from her place on the shore.

He really was very tall and forbidding in his black clothes. He looked more like a man of the Night’s Watch, if it wasn’t for the ruby red dragon on his tunic.

‘But I could not stay in there a moment longer. I have been stuck in a room for three days with nothing more stimulating to do that stare out at this place. I was never in danger, I promise.’

‘Ser Oswell is a fine knight, but you are nearly a princess and need more protection.’

‘You’re already a prince and yet here you are with only yourself, Ser Arthur and apparently a sizeable vineyard.’

His wine-flushed face reddened further. ‘I was-‘

‘Drinking away your sorrows? Am I such a terrible prospect? I can’t imagine how you could conclude that, given how little you know me.’

He dropped down to sit beside her and tentatively took her small hand in his own. She had long fingers, just as he did. Why he noticed that, he did not know.

‘My sincerest apologies, my lady. I do not consider you terrible _anything_ and I am eager to know you better.’

‘Pretty words, Your Grace. In the North, we need more than pretty words.’

‘One day very soon you will find I am a man action as much as I am a man of learning.’

‘What will happen to the Princess?’ Here, on a riverbank at the dawning of her wedding morning, Lyanna found her bravery.

Rhaegar let out a long, slow and steady breath. ‘I cannot say yet. Our marriage was declared null and void shortly before your arrival. The Grand Maester and High Septon agree that her health prevents her from being a wife to me. My father says he would not insult Dorne by keeping her here against her best interests, but he was ever against the match. It is a useful excuse of course. She is not hale or hearty, but she is – pray, excuse me my lady – _was_ , my wife!’

‘You love her.’ Lyanna would have wept at marrying a man who loved another, but since meeting the King, she had changed. Something happened, a self-preservation instinct perhaps, that stopped her caring too much for others above her own self. She already despised herself for it.

‘I am very fond of her, and we have been husband and wife to one another for most of a year gone… but I do not love her. I do not… you must forgive my honesty, Lady Lyanna, but I not in love with anyone.’

‘Nor am I.’ She paused. ‘But I am willing to consider it… and you are very handsome, so I expect it will come easily enough in time.’

It took Rhaegar a moment to realise she was joking, but it was enough for her to taste victory. Her laughter bounced across the water and back at them, and Rhaegar joined her without even noticing at first. He was not a laugher as a rule. Lyanna understood instantly that this was the first real laugh she had had from him.

‘Keep that up,’ she said. ‘And it may prove impossible not to fall in love with you, Your Grace.’

‘Gods, do call me Rhaegar when it is us. I can’t stand all the “Your Gracing”.’

‘You act as if you don’t like being a prince at all!’

‘I don’t, in truth.’

‘What would you be if not a prince?’

‘A musician. A master. A knight. A builder. A septon. Anything, almost.’

‘You are such a sad man, Rhaegar.’

‘It is my lot in life. To have everything except contentment. It is… there are certain things which keep my life precarious. What will happen later today is simply an extreme example of the lack of power I have over my own life.’

It was the closest he had come to alluding to the King’s madness and Lyanna found herself hoping he would confide in her further when they were married. Not even for her own well-developed sense of curiosity, but to help him. Was that not a wifely instinct?

He dropped her hand and she felt the absence as she had never before.

‘I must return to the Keep,’ he said. ‘As should you. Wait a while with Ser Oswell, then take the little north-east gate. He knows what I mean.’

He helped her to her feet, although he was still drunkenly unsteady and they nearly fell. Then, as any knight would, he kissed her hand.

‘Until later, my lady.’

‘Lyanna,’ she replied quietly. ‘Rhaegar.’

‘Indeed.’ He smiled, a little. ‘Lyanna.’

 *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Given how long I waited between chapters, and how short it was, I thought it only fair to leave this for you today...
> 
> Enjoy and please do let me know what you think!


	11. North & South United At Last - For A Thousand Years of Greatness

The Targaryen Chronicle, 280AC

Under skies of brightest blue, a great multitude crowded streets of the great capital of the Seven Kingdoms for the wedding of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, to Lady Lyanna of House Stark.

The High Septon, in robes of ruby and cloth-of-gold, flanked by the most pious of his flock, greeted the Prince on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor, witnessed by the great and the good of the Seven Kingdoms, and thousands of happy citizens, who cheered their prince.

The Prince of Dragonstone was resplendent in robes the colour of darkest night. His cloak swirled around him, the red three-headed dragon embroidered upon it, seeming to come to life as it moved. Prince Rhaegar was a magnificent sight: tall, commanding and handsome, a perfect specimen of the Targaryen Dynasty’s silver hair, purple eyes and proud bearing.

With great pride must his esteemed forebears have looked upon the Prince; even Baelor the Blessed himself would have approved of the Prince’s humble offertory prayers to the Father and the Mother upon his arrival at the Great Sept.

At high noon, with the sun at its most benevolent, the Lady Lyanna was brought to the Great Sept by her brothers Brandon, the future Lord of Winterfell, and Eddard. The bride wore a grey and cloth-of-silver dress, and the white-grey cloak of her House. It was said that her youthful beauty brought grown men to tears of admiration as she passed by, and women swore her to be the Maiden personified.            

The vows were spoken and the Prince replaced her Maiden’s cloak with his own of black and red, and in so doing, gifted her his lifelong protection and bound them as husband and wife.

The High Septon declared it a great and blessed marriage and those gathered in the Sept didst heartily agree.

King Aerys the Second of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men didst then crown the Lady Lyanna as Princess of Dragonstone, and then did address his loyal people. He declared that in this marriage, North and South were united at last and would embark upon a thousand years of greatness.

The Prince and Princess’s procession through King’s Landing to the Red Keep with yet more thousands of happy smallfolk cheering them on their way. Many more left offerings and prayers at septs across the land, in the firm belief that the Seven would smile upon their prince and princess.

All present agreed that it was a day to remember for all times.

*

Eddard III

Ned could not help feeling that something awful was going to happen at any moment.

The inhabitants of King’s Landing and nearby towns and villages had come out in their thousands to line the streets to see their prince marry Ned’s little sister. The wedding itself had been exactly as planned, even with the short notice, and King Aerys even seemed happy when he placed a silver crown of roses upon Lyanna’s head.

Ned had been glad that Lyanna did not trip or make an inappropriately bold remark. She had been poised, graceful and very beautiful. The seamstresses and the Queen’s Ladies had displayed her to her best advantage.

All had been well before the wedding; all had been well during the wedding and the brief coronation ceremony. The King, seeming very pleased with himself in fact, had addressed his subjects and appeared to all present to be lucid, calm and kingly. He spoke of peace; of uniting North and South; of great days for the Seven Kingdoms that were to come.

Then, something had gone wrong. Ned Stark had been in King’s Landing only a few days but already understood that _something_ would always go wrong.

Rhaegar and Lyanna travelled through the city to huge cheers as smallfolk tossed flowers to them and held up their children for the royal couple to somehow bless simply by passing close by. The Prince’s popularity might not have enraged the King so much if the crowds had not fallen horribly silent as the King’s own litter passed. It was hard to deny the Prince’s popularity, but harder still to ignore the disparity between the smallfolk’s feelings towards the father and the son.

The King’s mood had turned by the time he returned to the Keep, and after raging loudly, he locked himself in his rooms and refused to attend the wedding feast. While most guests chose to see this in a favourable light, those with some understanding could not, at least until they knew how the King’s mad rage would manifest in this case.

Prince Rhaegar’s face was characteristically neutral, but Ned could see his eyes were not at rest and his hand gripped his goblet tighter than necessary. He could see even clearer how Lyanna felt. Others might dismiss her glances at Rhaegar and around the room and translate them as maidenly nerves, but he knew better. Lyanna knew what was coming this night – in theory at least – for Old Nan had told each of the Stark children what they needed to know as soon as she felt they were about to embark on that sort of thing.

She’d told Ned everything the night before he left for the Eyrie. She had been so matter of fact, answered all his questions bluntly and without shame or judgement. He had been mortified when _Old Nan_ of all people taught him how sex worked, and yet afterwards he could not imagine any other way.

He didn’t know at the time, but it was the absolute best thing that could have happened: had he not known what he needed to know, Robert Baratheon (lusty even as a young lad) would’ve mocked him mercilessly and left him humiliated.

Ned looked over to see his friend with a group of young Stormlanders, chugging ale in some kind of competition. Robert had made it just in time for the wedding, and had ridden through King’s Landing with some pomp that morning. He had made Ned fully aware of his severe displeasure at missing out on the great charms of Lyanna Stark, but he was not foolish enough to show it publicly. It was not entirely clear whether Robert was more disappointed at missing out on Lyanna herself or the powerful connection between the North and the Stormlands.

If asked, Ned would admit that from a purely dynastic perspective, the King’s decision to marry Rhaegar to Lyanna was quite possibly a stroke of genius. As long as Rickard Stark’s only daughter was with the dragons, the great grey wolf of the North was muzzled.

The players started a lively new tune, and he watched dancers gather. The evening had reached a point where drunkenness was the norm, but before it became too rowdy.

Ned shivered even in the heat of the busy hall. What if his father reached a point where even his beloved daughter’s safety was less important than the well-being and power of his House? What if winter came and Lyanna was still in the king’s dangerous grip?

‘Ned! Have another drink!’ Robert boomed as he slapped his friend on the back. A serving wench was summoned with more ale, and Robert pulled her onto his lap. ‘At least I need not worry about offending a wife just yet, eh?’

‘Aye.’

‘Still, I am sorry that Lyanna proved so-’ Robert stopped and slurped at his drink. His face reddened and his free hand slipped under the serving girl’s skirt. She reddened and it was not clear to Ned whether she wanted to cry or slap the Baratheon lord.

‘Robert, let the girl get back to her duties.’

‘This is far better than duty!’

‘Robert.’

‘As you must, _Septon Stark_.’ Robert released the girl, who scurried away as quickly as she could.

Gods, Ned was glad that his sister had been spared this man, even if he did love him as a brother. Robert was an excellent friend, a considerate liege lord… he was the kind of man that other men regarded well because he regarded them well in return. He did not approach womenfolk in the same way and so they either loved or loathed him, but none were treated well. Ned wondered how Robert had treated his mother Cassana before her death: he certainly honoured her well (and conspicuously) in death.

His mind had wandered. He was worried about Lyanna, about Brandon and Catelyn Tully, about the King, about Prince Rhaegar and the Dornish princess. He was worried about the North, about Winter, about his place in the world.

He caught Lyanna’s eye where she sat alone at the High Table. Her new husband was several seats away and in conversation with a young lordling Ned did not recognise. Lyanna grinned and winked at him, and pointed discreetly in the direction of Ashara Dayne. She had understood his infatuation with the Dayne woman very quickly, and in the few minutes they’d had to spare to each other earlier, had encouraged him to speak with her.

Ashara had been most gracious during their dance the night before, but he could not fathom whether she was genuinely interested or simply well-practiced at being kind to young men. He watched her dance with his brother and the truth was plain: Brandon was entangled with her.

Oh well. It wasn’t the first time a girl had caught Ned’s eye but was snared by Brandon before Ned even had a chance. He would ask Lyanna to dance instead. That way, he would also be close by when the Bedding was called for.

She accepted without even looking at her new husband, but she remembered just in time to acknowledge him. Prince Rhaegar nodded and resumed his conversation. The Prince had not danced and looked like he would not.

‘Are you happy, sister?’ he asked as they took to the floor. He tried to ignore Brandon and Ashara joining the dance together for the third time.

‘Of _course_ , Ned! I am now married to a prince and one day might even be queen!’ Her voice was tinkling, musical and light; her giggle was gay. Her grey eyes were a storm that matched his own. She squeezed his hand. ‘All will be well, I know it.’

‘How do you know?’ They turned and he had to wait for his answer.

‘I asked the old gods and I have always been told that I am blessed by them, so it must be true.’

‘This is true.’ Ned remembered far better than she, but Lyarra Stark had been convinced that her only daughter was touched by the old gods. _The stars fell the night she was born,_ she used to say. ‘But if life should prove otherwise, you have my sword and my shield.’

He half expected to join the Night’s Watch once Brandon was married and had children to secure the family Stark’s future… but until such an oath was taken, he was absolute in his sincerity on this point.

Then, the call went up across the hall: ‘The bedding! The bedding!’

Lyanna’s grip on Ned’s hands turned vice-like. ‘Please, Ned-‘

‘Fear not.’ He swept her off her feet and strode across the hall. It was such a long, long way and so many greedy hands were grabbing at her.

Brandon appeared at his side a moment later and a heartbeat after that, Ser Arthur Dayne was at his other shoulder. Between the three of them, they removed Lyanna from the Hall and not even the likes of Robert Baratheon could get at her.

Lyanna’s heart thudded so hard that Ned could feel it against his skin. He deposited her at the Prince’s door.

‘Good night, Lyanna,’ he said and pressed a kiss against her cheek as he did.

Brandon followed suit and Ser Arthur bowed low before taking up a guard position at the door.

Brandon tugged Ned away before he could say what he wanted to. ‘Come lad, there’s more feasting to be had! Let’s leave the married old woman to herself.’

Lyanna’s muttered curses made them both chuckle as they left her to enter the room quite alone. Brandon paused at the hall doors.

‘I’m just exhausted, Ned! I’ll see you in the morning. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’

‘That doesn’t leave much.’

‘True. Well… night then.’ Brandon scooted away before Ned had a chance to speak again.

Inside the hall, he saw Ashara Dayne just as she slipped through a different door, and hoped dearly that Brandon was just getting the last of his urges out of the way before settling down with the Tully girl. Lady Catelyn deserved an honourable husband, just as Lyanna did.

Robert was so drunk that there was little danger of him making it out of the hall, let alone importuning any unfortunate girl in the vicinity, so Ned resolved to keep watch over him.

Although there was still the matter of the king’s anger about the procession, it had not been a bad sort of night, and while he didn’t trust Lyanna was truly safe, and didn’t quite like his new good-brother, he was not as fearful as he had been.

If all else failed, perhaps he could join the Kingsguard instead of the Watch. At least he could guard his sister then. Except… he would have to swear an oath to the King above and before all others, including Lyanna. No, that would not do. There was surely another way. He would confer with his father as soon as he returned home.

In the meantime, he would wait for morning. Everything would be different in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're enjoying this - I now have a decent amount of story written so I'll be posting every few days.
> 
> If you're really interested, hitting that 'subscribe' button means you won't miss a post ;)
> 
> Next chapter takes us inside The Room...


	12. Inside the Room

Lyanna IV

 

Lyanna was never as grateful for Brandon and Ned’s protective tendencies as at the moment they set her on her feet by Rhaegar’s door. She had not expected to end the Bedding still dressed and unmolested. The looks Robert Baratheon and some of the other lords had been throwing her way all night had left her so unsettled that she’d hardly eaten a thing. Now, she felt a little disloyal for being so wary.

Ser Arthur, that bright and shining knight, had assisted most gallantly and now held the door open for her.

‘Thank you, Ser Arthur. I am most grateful.’ She hated how girlish she sounded, with a high quiver to the sound, but this was not an experience with which she was familiar and her nerves were a little frayed after the King’s rage and the chaos of the feast.

Inside the room, she let her fears rise to the forefront of her mind again. Was the King’s wrath simply waiting for the moment it could cause the most savage grief? She hadn’t even done anything this time! She hadn’t even said the wrong things! How was she to get along if the rules kept changing all the time?

‘My prince would never see harm come to you, Your Grace.’

 _Your Grace_. Seven hells! That was _her_. It was unbelievably and frankly ridiculous, even as her crown sat heavy on her head. She returned Ser Arthur’s reassuring smile as best she could, then he left her alone in the room.

It was large enough to be a sizeable bed chamber, and yet was was only a sitting room of sorts. Finely-woven tapestries hung on the red stone walls and black-and-red silk drapes hung at the windows and swirled in the gentle breeze of the warm King’s Landing night. Chairs by the fire were covered in the same silks. The fireplace itself was ornately carved in black stone of the sort she imagined was all over Dragonstone. It was a more masculine room than those in the Maidenvault that she had seen so far, but had a cosy, livable feeling to it. She liked it very much.

A desk by the window was piled high with papers and books but it was not untidy in appearance. A portrait of Aegon the Conqueror and his two wives hung above the fire.

 _The dragon must have three heads_ , she thought darkly. Did Rhaegar mean for Lyanna to be a second wife after all? Elia had not left King’s Landing, of course…

The door opened and _he_ strode in, no worse for wear than she. Her husband’s purple eyes shone in the firelight and he looked exceedingly handsome in his black and red breeches and tunic. The red dragon emblazoned across his chest seemed almost to hypnotise, its three heads all demanding her attention.

‘You are well?’ he asked, brow furrowed as he looked her over for signs of mistreatment.

She released the breath she hadn’t noticed she’d been holding. ‘Yes, thanks to my brothers and Ser Arthur.’

He appeared relieved by her answer, though not at ease. ‘Of course. Will you take some wine?’

‘I have had enough, thank you, Your Grace.’ He raised one silvery eyebrow until she corrected herself. ‘Rhaegar.’

He smiled at her in a way he had not previously: boyishly, sweetly. It was incredibly charming, and her heart fluttered just a little. He crossed the room to stand beside her, and he touched her face gently. She noticed that his fingertips bore the light callouses of a harp player. She shivered.

‘Lyanna… if I thought we could avoid the Bedding this night, I would but… my father may demand more proof than a bloody sheet and… he is… not…’

‘You don’t need to explain. I understand. Rather, I think I do.’

‘I am sorry.’

‘Why?’

He paced the room, dragon-wildness barely held back by his regal restraint. ‘Because you are a maiden and full young-‘

She dared interrupt the prince now he was her husband. ‘I have been expecting this moment for a long time. It was not always you or this room, but it was always going to be someone in some room somewhere. I am not… I have no objection, but you must forgive my ignorance of what we are to do.’

‘Forgive it?’ Rhaegar laughed and moved to stand with her again. The tension in her shoulders eased even though the tension in her belly increased. She could smell the expensive scented oils in his hair. ‘Ignorance in such circumstances is hardly considered undesirable.’

‘I do not like feeling unprepared or inexperienced,’ she admitted. ‘My nurse told me the facts but not… I do not…’

He took her hands in his own, and they were much warmer than she expected. It occurred to her that he had barely touched any part of her _except_ her hands so far.

‘I have a brother who very clearly enjoys _this_ ,’ she said. ‘Poets and singers wax lyrical about it. Wars have been fought and thrones surrendered for it. Without it, we none of us would be here. I should like to know what the fuss is about.’

Rhaegar’s boyish, slightly lopsided smile returned. Its slight imperfection on his otherwise always-perfect visage was reassuring. ‘I shall do my best to teach you, my lady.’

He pressed a soft kiss upon her lips and his hands ran up her arms to her shoulders. Her skin burned where he touched her, but it was a pleasing sort of heat.

‘I am still dressed. So are you.’

‘There may have been a benefit to the insanity we have side-stepped,’ he replied. ‘No matter.’

A ruby-hilted dagger sat atop a stack of parchments on the desk. He took it lightly in his hand for a moment, then without further hesitation, he sliced the back of her dress open. It fell to her hips, exposing her skin to the cooling night air. Goosebumps rose and she shivered, although it was unlike any chill she had known before.

‘That should keep them all talking,’ he said of the ruined dress as he pulled her into his embrace.

Instinctively, her hands went to his back, then into his long, beautiful hair as she leaned up to kiss him, or returned his kiss: it was no longer clear who instigated what, even as it was awkwardly new and uncertain.

She was on fire from the ends of her hair to the tips of her toes. The heat was concentrated in that part of her only recently discovered as being more complicated than she’d known before. She noticed distantly that her blush extended from her face down the rest of her and considered that whatever she had felt similar to this before, on her own, was a thousand times more intense.

‘Oh!’ Her moan sounded outside her own self. His kisses had reached her teats, previously never touched by anyone by Lyanna herself. Not even during bathing had her maidservants had- ‘Oh…’

She had not expected this to feel like _this_.

‘Come.’ He tugged her gently into the next room.

A huge bed with black and red drapes dominated the room, taunting and beckoning her.

Everything was better and fiercer and stronger than she’d ever anticipated. Old Nan said there would be pain, but Lyanna Stark felt nothing except dizzying euphoria and later, bliss.

 

*

 

Rhaegar IV

 

For days Rhaegar had known that to keep Lyanna safe he would, perversely, have to bring some harm. He had not wished for it and strove to be gentle. He had not expected her to be willing, yet found her curious and eager, in a way. Had she not been so obviously inexperienced he would have found it hard to believe her still a maiden.

Not, he thought wryly, that the alternative would have bothered him much. Virginity was valued by many men for motives less than honourable, and he was not of a mind with them.

Now, as the sun rose somewhere in the distance, he lay awake as his wife slept curled against him. Her long dark hair tickled against his chest as it moved with every breath in and out she took.

Lyanna was fierce and in her way as much fire as he was ice. Perhaps the prophecy had been misinterpreted: did the fire come from the North and the ice from the South?

He did not love her yet, but felt like he might grow to do so. He was certainly attracted to the woman – _girl_ , he reminded himself sternly with no small portion of guilt – to whom he found himself now married. The night’s activity had not been a chore to him in the physical sense.

He felt that he might love her if he got to know her better.

Yet, he thought, what more was there to truly know? What more did he need to know? What was stopping him from loving the vivacious, compassionate, bright person in his arms? Surely not Elia… he was not in love with her either, and their wedding night had been far more awkward than this-

It was the King. As long as Aerys could cause pain and heartache without warning, Rhaegar could not bring himself to love anyone. If the King was there, he could destroy them for the crime of being loved by Rhaegar and for no greater motive than because he could.

Aerys believed he had thwarted Rhaegar by forcing the Northern Alliance. How he would rage if he ever discovered his son might be happy! His father’s reaction at being out-cheered was still fresh in Rhaegar’s mind, and now that mighty organ turned itself to that matter.

He’d feared his father would burn the new princess on the spot.

No, he could not love her. Not _yet_ , his more wishful side called out to him. If he could love anyone, surely it was Lyanna Stark? She was not beautiful like graceful Elia Martell, golden Cersei Lannister, or spectacular Ashara Dayne. She was vibrant, wild and shining: Her beauty was an accessory to her character rather than existing for its own sake. She would be a good princess, one day a good queen. He just needed to make sure that the wilful girl lived that long.

Without conscious thought, he stroked her hair and she stirred a little in her sleep. It struck him how terribly young she truly was. He hadn’t known many fourteen year old girls, but this one seemed older than her years in so many ways that he did keep forgetting that she was barely-flowered.

He resolved in that moment to not touch her again until such time as she was ready.

‘Hmm…’ her voice vibrated down his chest. She looked up at him, grey eyes watery with sleep. ‘Good morning.’

‘Good morning, dear wife.’

‘So, last night-‘

‘I apologise-’

‘What for?’ She grinned toothily and no longer seemed so childish.

‘For the unavoidable chore-‘

‘God, Rhaegar! Would that every chore was so… so… ardent!’ She laughed throatily. ‘You look like you want to be sick, Your Grace. Was I such a terrible bed-mate? You will have to train me up-‘

‘Lyanna, you are very young. That is all. You were… it was more than I could have hoped for but you are so young. I worry-‘

‘I am flowered. My mother was very young, and her mother, too. We must grow up very quickly in the North…’ She looked down at her naked self. ‘If I am not to your liking, Your Gr-‘

‘None of that, sweet girl. You are young and I just wish we might have more time to get to know the other before… before you are required to submit to me again.’

She sat up and pulled away from him. He missed the warmth of her with an unexpected pang. ‘Who said anything about submitting to anyone? Participating, perhaps. Coupling… certainly. How about partnership? Joining? I always liked the idea of _conjugating_ …’

‘We could be here all day. There are many words for it.’

‘I hope so!’ She winked cheekily, but her smile died on seeing his frown. ‘I am sorry. I have never been newly-wedded before and do not know how I should act.’

That stung, not least due to the coldly formal tone she adopted. He had such hopes on a similar morning less than a year before, when the girl in his arms was already a woman, a princess. He had not loved her, but he had felt hope.

‘You should act however you wish… but I cannot in good conscience take more from you than I should.’

‘But I-‘ Lyanna moved to leave the bed entirely but turned pale and winced. ‘Ow. Well… a hot bath would be nice. Then we shall stay here all day and you will play your harp for me. I am told you are a magnificent singer.’

He reached out and traced a finger across her bare shoulder, forgetting in the moment his previous undertaking. ‘I am passable, but princes are often _magnificent_ even when they are not at all magnificent.’

His weary cynicism weight upon his chest, a dull aching pain of experience.

She had no such weariness yet: ‘Well then, sing for me and I will give you an honest answer.’

‘Later, wife…’ he cleared his throat gently. ‘For now, I will request a bath-’

A knock on the door interrupted them.

‘Your Grace…’ Ser Arthur sounded deeply apologetic and Rhaegar could picture the mortification on his face even from the wrong side of the door. ‘The Grand Maester is here on the King’s business.’

‘Of course he is.’ Rhaegar got out of the bed and, remaining defiantly naked, opened the door to whoever might be standing there.

Pycelle stood there with his usual simpering smile. Varys hovered behind and his eyebrow quirked only a little at the sight of the royal appendage.

‘What do you want?’ Rhaegar demanded. His haughty irritation was no mask this time.

‘The King bids that I examine the Princess-‘

‘For what purpose?’

‘To confirm the consummation-‘

‘Fuck off, Pycelle.’

‘Your Grace, I would not-‘

Rhaegar was sick to think not only that his father had ordered the examination but that Rhaegar himself had predicted it. What manner of man could match a mad man?

‘Come in then,’ he barked and led Pycelle into the bedchamber.

Pycelle’s keen, hooded eyes took in the details of the scene before him and Rhaegar was pleased that it looked the part: two pillows had found their way to the floor, the bedclothes were in obvious disarray and the new princess was abed, naked but for the sheet around her, blushing most prettily. What more proof could the snivelling and obsequious maester need? Clearly more, for he approached Lyanna and the bed.

There was some blood on the sheet, but not enough to appease the Grand Maester, if such was even possible.

‘I must examine-‘

‘You _must_ do nothing,’ Rhaegar bawled.

Pycelle hesitated, but he was on the King’s orders and it would be difficult to order him down, not with the King already angered.

‘It is all well, Your Grace,’ Lyanna said softly. ‘If the King wishes for it, I am surely it only his concern for his new good-daughter’s good health. I am happy to reassure him.’

Rhaegar could hardly bear to watch, but dared not look away lest Pycelle do anything even more unnecessary that the examination itself.

The examination concluded shortly, but not quickly enough.

Pycelle stood, his eyes oddly bright. ‘All is well, my Prince. I will be happy to report as such to the King.’

‘Touch my wife again, and you will be the _late_ Grand Master.’

‘Of course, Your Grace.’ Pycelle bowed as low as his increasing years would allow, then shuffled out of the room.

Rhaegar sank onto the edge of the bed and took several long deep breaths. The thought of anyone touching his wife woke his own dragon. He had feared his own self, and what he might find himself capable of, for as long as he could remember. His father’s increasing insanity made him yet more afraid.

How had he become so attached to her already? Was it simply the fact of possession? He was well-accustomed to the princely attitudes of ownership, but people were something else. He had not believed Elia his possession and would not do so with the Stark girl.

‘All will be well,’ his wife said with all the naïve charm of the young and inexperienced.

‘But-’

‘Yes it will. We will make it so.’ She reached out and took his hand and kissed it as though she were the lord and he the lady. ‘We will make the world as we would have it be. Otherwise, why go to the trouble of being a prince?’

He remembered being that hopeful. Surely it had not been so very long ago?

‘I shall strive to be worthy of you, my lady.’

Lyanna sighed. ‘I shall ask no more. And yet, no less. Except…’

‘Yes, wife?’

‘A bath.’

‘Indeed.’

 

*

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading so far! I hope you're enjoying it - let me know via the comments button if you like...


	13. Two Princesses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Brandon says his farewells and Lyanna makes a greeting.

Brandon II

Brandon had to bite back a laugh at the look on Cersei Lannister’s face as Grand Maester Pycelle made his stomach-churningly detailed, servile announcement that he had _examined the princess_.

Oh, he wanted to stab that sick bastard in the throat for that. Ned’s hand on his arm stayed him and the shade of green Cersei had turned were enough to restore his mood.

He felt relief too, knowing that it was _done_ and his sister was now protected by the dragons. He knew Father would be glad in one respect: Lord Rickard was quietly, subtly ambitious for his House and marriage into the royal family was an excellent step.

If only the King was not so bloody mad. Still, kings did not live forever.

The Starks prepared to leave as soon as they could, and he was not exactly displeased to leave the stultifying court behind him but there were things he would miss.

A sweet, alluring voice stopped Brandon as he returned to his guest room for the last time: ‘However did you find me?’

He turned, confused. Ashara Dayne stood half-hidden in shadows. ‘My lady?’

‘My princess slumbers,’ she said. ‘I find myself with some free time.’

‘I assume mine does the same.’

‘She likely had a busy night.’

‘I prefer not to think on it.’

‘I understand. I have not that problem, for my brother swore an oath.’ She stepped into the light, her hair glowing in the dim light and her eyes alive with _something_. The dress she wore was Dornish and left _just enough_ to the imagination. ‘Perhaps you could help me find occupation for a while?’

‘I am leaving soon.’

‘Yes, I know.’

He held his door open for her and she entered without hesitation, just as each time before. Her self-possession was more attractive to him than a dozen winsome young maidens’ polite smiles.

‘Do you travel to Winterfell, or to Riverrun?’ She wandered the room as if this was a casual visit between acquaintances.

‘Riverrun first. I must meet her, I suppose.’ He took up a position by the bed, the better to watch her from.

She stopped and turned to him with a curious expression upon her face. ‘Would you change your stars if you could, Brandon?’

‘I cannot. I would not shame my father-’

‘Yet you shame yourself now, some would say.’

‘I am not yet married.’

‘Promised.’

‘Promised is not married.’ He was splitting hairs and he knew it. Yet he could not leave the truth unchallenged.

She pressed the question again, and sidled up to him so close that he could breathe in the scent of her hair oil and feel the heat radiating off her. ‘So if you could change your future?’

‘I will not think of things I cannot change, my lady… but if you want to know whether my heart is touched-’

‘That is not what I asked!’ She moved away from him.

‘Well, it is.’ The real truth now spoken aloud, Brandon’s legs betrayed him and he fell heavily onto the bed. ‘I am a Stark. Honour is part of who we are. I have not always behaved _well_ but I’ve never brought dishonour to my house.’

‘What a wild wolf you are,’ she teased.

‘Wild perhaps but part of the pack nonetheless. I cannot…’

‘If you could?’

‘I would.’ He sighed. ‘I could never promise fidelity of that sort, not to anyone.’

‘Not everyone values that sort of fidelity above others.’

He took her hands and pulled her down to meet him. ‘I will be gone soon.’

‘I know.’

 

*

 

Lyanna V

On their third day as husband and wife, Lyanna asked for something she had wanted since arriving in King’s Landing. She had considered many ways of asking but in the end, as was her true nature, asked the straightforward question without flourishes of language.

They were sharing lunch on the balcony of his room, and had fallen already into a companionable rhythm as they started to become acquainted with each other. They had not yet been much bothered by the world on the other side of the door, but he had remained true to his word and not made overtures towards her. He was kind and not unaffectionate in platonic ways, so she seized her chance.

‘Rhaegar, may I meet Princess Elia?’

The Prince’s purple eyes widened a little and she watched him contemplate it. ‘Why so, my lady?’

‘I would like to speak to her. I want to know her a little. I want her to know that I was not a conscious cause of her demotion, and that… that I will take care of you.’

She blushed, and hated herself for the feminine response, but it did not harm with him.

‘I do not know. I will not speak for her, but I will put forth the request. Shall I ask her to come to you?’

‘Of course not! It is bad enough that I have taken her place! It would be unspeakably cruel to then summon her here, to crow over her in this place!’

It was his turn to redden, as much as that pale creature could. ‘I did not think-‘

‘If she agrees, the time and place are of her choosing.’

‘As you wish.’

‘Thank you… and you should know that I would seek to heal the breach between you and Dorne.’

‘There is no-‘ he cut himself off. ‘Worry not, wife.’

Ah, there it was. She smiled and diverted the conversation onto other matters: a new arrangement of “Jenny of Oldstones” was doing the rounds but nobody knew the composer’s identity.

Curiously, Rhaegar’s colour remained high as the topic developed. Lyanna’s mind whirled at the many things this might mean. Intrigues aplenty, as seemed to be everyday life in King’s Landing.

 

*

 

Within a few more days Lyanna was shortly invited – discreetly – to take tea with Princess Elia. Quite whether she would drink tea with a notorious poisoner’s sister, Lyanna did not know, but she attended at the given time and place: afternoon in a private cloister in the quietest part of the castle, now given over to the Princess.

In place of her usual guard Ser Oswell Whent, Ser Arthur Dayne escorted her to the airy, secluded quadrangle, where Princess Elia and Arthur’s sister Ashara sat on sofas arranged with a multitude of soft cushions.

Princess Elia’s rooms were a little slice of Dorne in King’s Landing, with rich Dornish décor of orange, red and gold. The sigil of House Martell was discreetly displayed here and there, but the large three-headed dragon set into the marble floor could not be ignored.

Princess Elia bore the features of her House: dark hair and darker eyes set into an aristocratic and fine-boned face. She was stretched across her sofa and her dress looked just a little too large, as if she had not eaten properly recently or her health was weak.

Lyanna had considered her manner of greeting for some time, and curtsied deeply to Princess Elia.

‘It is an honour to meet you at last, Your Grace.’

She remained low until Elia bade her rise.

‘You are Your Grace,’ Elia replied in a voice soft as lambswool.

‘ _You_ were born a Princess,’ Lyanna remarked. ‘I am only a princess thanks to a most unexpected wedding.’

Elia’s expression was unreadable, but Ashara Dayne’s stare was unquestionably suspicious. ‘Starks have such sweet tongues.’

‘Yet we do not speak false.’

‘Oh? I wonder.’

Oh gods, what had Brandon done _now_?’

‘No, my lady. I speak my truth, whether you believe me or not. And further, I would have you know that I am a friend to Dorne, and to you, Your Grace.’

‘Even though my husband calls you wife?’

The question was asked without malice.

‘Indeed, Your Grace. The situation we are in was not of my conjuring or desire, nor of my father’s. It was the King alone.’

And if the King were to-‘ Elia trailed off. ‘And the new King was to reinstate his first wife? Would you yield?’

Lyanna was being tested, of course. She had expected no less and had considered this question before. She would be honest, of course…

‘I do not know, You Grace. Truly I do not. I will not deceive or attempt to deceive you. Today all I know is that everything is uncertain and unknown.’

Ah, she had it!

‘If Rhaegar wished not longer to be my husband, for whatever reason, I would respect his decision.’

Elia was startled by this, and her gaze flew to Ashara’s. After barely a moment, she was composed again. ‘Very well. Ashara, would you be good enough to serve the tea?’

‘Of course, Your Grace.’

Elia smiled at Lyanna. ‘I promise Oberyn’s habits are not mine.’

Her wicked little joke broke the remaining ice and allowed Lyanna to laugh some of her nervousness away.

An hour later, they had not stopped talking. Elia had a wicked sense of humour; Ashara’s humour was sharp. They were intelligent, interesting people and she liked them well. Still, there were rules to this sort of thing.

‘I should take my leave,’ Lyanna said. ‘I have taken enough of your time, Your Grace.’

‘It has been a rare pleasure, and you should use my given name, Lyanna Stark.’

‘I will, Elia Martell.’

Elia yawned, her energy drained. ‘We will be friends, I think.’

‘I hope so.’

Lyanna left with a spring in her step that grew heavy as she became further removed. “Trust no one”, Rhaella had said. She liked Elia and Ashara, but she could surely not trust them.

It was only later that Lyanna realised something: the way into the Princess’ rooms had not been a usual route to what was a remote part of the Keep, and the entrance used was not the proper way in. The tea had been brought by guards not maids. Elia Martell was kept in well-appointed rooms, but she was kept a prisoner just the same.

Trust no one, but trust King Aerys and his companions least of all.

 

*

 

Time passed both slowly and very quickly in the Red Keep. The days were long and dull. She found herself reading a great deal if only because it was preferable to needlework and she needed to know her history and her houses to have any hope of thriving in such a vile nest of courtly intrigue.

Her nights were short. She was in bed early, where she would wait for Rhaegar to come but he did not, except to bid her goodnight or occasional to slumber beside her without as much as a glance at her person. It was a relief in some ways, because he was not wrong when he noticed her youth, but it made the future less certain than even the tumultuous situation they were already in.

After a moon and a half, he left for Summerhall, though his reason was unclear.

‘When I return,’ he told her, ‘we will go to Dragonstone. It is your – our – home now.’

‘As you wish, my prince.’

He had asked her to call him by his name, but it amused her that he rarely objected to his titles. He was so completely _royal_ that for any claim towards equality or the like, he was almost always comfortable with deference.

The Queen did her best to entertain her new good-daughter, but was at a loss with Lyanna, who enjoyed active pursuits. Lyanna could not shake the belief that Rhaella preferred Elia and regretted the familial loss of that good woman.

The ladies who had scowled at her and whispered behind their hands about her in the days immediately before and after her wedding now sought her approval and friendship. Had they all believed her so blind or lacking in understanding? Did they think her an idiot? Perhaps each had harboured a dream that Lyanna would never make it so far as to actually _marry_ Prince Rhaegar, thus leaving him for themselves?

They likely had such hopes when Elia married him, so twas not entirely unreasonable. Dashed hopes were a terrible thing to cope with. Were princesses so entirely, easily disposable? Ser Oswell remained close whenever she was away from her rooms, and she had been subtly dissuaded from any activity which would take her away from the Red Keep.

Lyanna had visited with Elia again almost as soon as Rhaegar took off for Summerhall. If Elia was amenable, she might be the only woman in the entire city with whom she could be friends, because everyone else had too much interest in Lyanna failing. Or perhaps she was the very worst option.

Most of all, she felt she was waiting for _something_. Or perhaps just for her prince husband to return so that they might resume the life they had tentatively started together.

Then, the King had a bright idea.

 

*


	14. A Home of Their Own

Aerys II

The King had taken to pacing - or rather, shuffling - across the floor of his Solar. He was vexed and aggrieved, discontent and his inner dragon snuffled its unhappiness in short bursts of anger like the dragon fire he yearned for.

The Dornish whore had to go! She was surely the reason that the wolf-girl had yet to get with child, despite three moons of marriage! Elia Martell was a tempting reminder to the Prince of possibilities dashed: _that_ wedding had been against his own royal wishes and the new wife was of his devising, so of course the boy would rail against it!

Any woman who could distract his worthless son from his one supposedly simple task would have to go. Had he himself not fallen to such comely distractions as a callow and foolish young man? Dragonseed was far too precious to waste and Rhaegar - that selfish, inconsiderate boy! - must not be swayed. There was no time for that. His own life had proved that.

The King, in his wisdom and superior understanding, would make things easier for the boy. He was too kind to his ungrateful son but he had only Rhaegar. Viserys was much too young and himself much too likely to die before he reached majority. He could not leave the Kingdoms in the hands of self-interested and corrupt Regents, not if he could possibly help it!

_No, no, no._ Rhaegar must be kept safe from temptations and distractions. He would have to act quickly of course, and so called for Varys, who shuffled into the solar almost silently on his Essosian slippers, and his gaudy robes were a great contrast to the Targaryen colours that dominated the room.

‘My spider,’ he greeted the eunuch with an empty smile. He valued and almost trusted the Master of Whispers, but did not like him.

‘How may I serve you, Your Grace?’

Aerys explained his conundrum.

‘I see, Your Grace.’ Varys always understood, an indispensably competent creature. ‘Yet… hmm… I would advise against sending Princess Elia away. She is too valuable a hostage. Perhaps Your Grace would see the Prince and his wife sent to Dragonstone? There are few things to do there other than expanding the population, I am told.’

Varys tittered at his little joke, but the King did not see the humour.

‘He will plot against me if I cannot see what he does! He thinks he is so clever, that boy!’

Inside, the dragon screeched.

‘Prince Rhaegar has always been all that is proper in a princely son,’ Varys said, his voice soothing to the King’s royal mind. ‘But to satisfy you, I will make sure we have someone to report back to us.’

‘That might be possible. Who, Lord Varys?’

‘Myself, Your Grace?’ he tittered.

‘No! I cannot spare you! We will consider the notion, but you will not go.’

‘As you wish it, so it shall be done, Your Grace.’

 

*

 

The King arrived at court late and found his elder son perched gracefully upon his throne to hear petitions on his behalf. The boy would have him out on his ear if he thought he could, and here he was, doing the King’s own work!

‘Father!’ Rhaegar leapt away from the Iron Throne on seeing his King. He bowed and waited until Aerys was settled on the cold, painful throne. ‘Lord Clegane has come with a request that his son Gregor may be squire to Lord Lorch.’

‘We agree.’

House Clegane was one of the newest knightly houses and had little to offer anyone, so he had no care for their inanities.

The next petitioner was a grubby woman who complained of bandits in the Kingswood. He was not listening particularly and quickly decreed that a unit of goldcloaks would investigate.

‘You are a great and compassionate King,’ the woman said through ugly tears as she was hustled away from his fine personage.

‘We have an announcement!’ he called out.

All fell silent immediately. He could not fail to notice how Rhaegar frowned and smiled to see it. The last time he had pronounced something so formally, it had been to reveal the boy’s marriage to the she-wolf.

‘Our son - beloved to us as he is - has been too long away from his own home. We are loathe to see him go, but we have no doubt that the prince’s line will flourish within his own home!’

He was pleased at how ominous his threat was, and how Rhaegar understood. Weak and prevaricating his son was, Prince Rhaegar did not lack for understanding.

‘You are kind, Your Grace,’ he said. ‘Your generosity of spirit is legendary.’

The courtiers applauded politely and even Tywin Lannister seemed pleased.

Aerys sent his son and good-daughter away to Dragonstone before the week was out. They were accompanied by Ser Arthur Dayne and several lesser guards, and in their company were Richard Lonmouth and Jon Connington. Also with them was Selyse Florent, an unpretty daughter of ever-loyal Lord Florent, who was grateful enough to be noticed to agree to pass on anything to Varys that might be of import. Oh, the King was wise indeed.

With Rhaegar gone from court, all attention was back where it belonged: on _him_.

 

*

 

Rhaegar V

 

The ship rolled as it left Blackwater Bay, but Rhaegar was too relieved to see the Red Keep retreat into the distance to notice.

‘I am glad your father agreed to this without argument,’ Lyanna said. She looked a little green around the edges: she had rarely set foot on a boat in her young life.

‘As am I. Dragonstone is our home and we should be there. Still… I am glad he was of a similar mind.’

The Prince of Dragonstone loved that bleakly beautiful castle. The carved dragons were as friends to him as a lad in the days when his father was a misbehaving prince and not yet a mad king. It was sanctuary from that madness now, and he could tentatively begin working towards gauging the Lords Paramount and their feelings about the King.

Not to mention the yet-to-exist heir that captivated them all. His father had been very particular about that. He feared being deposed but demanded the means for such from his son. The dynasty would always win out over almost any other concern. His parting words had been a hissed threat: _get a child on her within a year or I will know the reason why._

Rhaegar could not. Not yet. He had been sincere in his declarations to his wife. She was barely turned fourteen and he had taken her for her own security, although he would not soon reconcile himself to his actions.

He was better than that. He had to be. At least in Dragonstone they could hide from the King’s worst excesses and mercurial moods. It helped that, if he was removed from court, no blame for acts there could fall upon him beyond accusations of inaction.

‘Will you miss court, my lady?’

‘I will miss my good-mother,’ she replied quickly, voice rising above the din of the ship cutting through water. ‘And I will miss my few friends. Otherwise, I have no love for King’s Landing or the court. Worry not on my account.’

A glance at her now only proved her youth: she was leaning against the rail, staring down at the hull of the ship and the foamy sea it cut through. The wind whipped her hair loose from its braid and she laughed as sea spray coated her face.

He missed Elia in that moment, if only because she was fully-grown woman. This girl… he could feel amusement and even some budding affection, but she did not stir his appetites.

He knew a number of lords and knights who took pleasure in girls or boys, or both, who were in good conscience simply too young. He had seen 12 and 13 year old girls trade cloaks almost as soon as they were flowered. It didn’t make it right.

Gods, what a world was he supposed to bring a child into anyway?

 

*

 

The Prince of Dragonstone lived a simple life when at his home. He rose early and after a light breakfast, trained in the yard with his companions. While his weapon of choice was the lance, he had become more than proficient with both sword and mace.

He misliked warhammers. They were unwieldy, clumsy and worst of all, artless.

The rest of his day, once his oft-raging dragon blood was sated with physical exertion, was filled with work of one sort of another. He was liege lord for the tenants of the Dragonstone lands, and his duties as the King’s son and member of the Small Council did not cease when away from court.

When the sun began to descend in the sky, he ceased all such works and gave his all to the matters of properly and the arcane that haunted him.

To unwind from all that, he would spend his evenings with his harp, perfecting old songs and composing new ones.

It was a routine that served him well for his adulthood so far, hardly changed by his first marriage, although that had introduced rather more games of cyvasse and other nightly pursuits.

He did not expect this to change with his second marriage, although having been married to Lyanna Stark for a handful of moons, he should have known better.

Within their first week at Dragonstone, Lyanna found herself bored: there were limited chances to ride and without her horse to ride off her energy, she had little to do. He knew it but was at a loss to what she might enjoy.

He had not expected it but was not surprised when she began taking a place at the loggia overlooking the training yard to watch them.

He hoped she watched to admire him rather than Arthur, Richard or any of the others, if only to avoid scandal. He tried to pretend she wasn’t sat there watching every move, often leaning forwards to get a better view.

By the fifth morning, she did not even sit down to watch and by morning seven, she appeared in the yard itself and watched from the sidelines.

‘You’re dropping your elbow!’ she called out as Rhaegar struck out towards Arthur and the hit landed badly against his opponent’s training sword.

They went again, Rhaegar tried again and his strike was good.

‘My lady,’ Arthur called to her with a grin, ‘Were you Winterfell’s Master-at-Arms?’

She scowled at his teasing. ‘No, but I know how to pay attention.’

Arthur glanced at Rhaegar, equal parts amused and annoyed.

‘Care to demonstrate, my wife?’ He made the suggestion on impulse and wished he could take it back, but it was too late.

Lyanna took Arthur’s light, blunted training sword and attacked without hesitation but a little too much haste. She was raw, hardly trained, but had good instincts and moved well. Her balance was excellent but her technique lacked polish.

Rhaegar tapped her own elbow with his sword. ‘Elbow up, my Lady!’

She turned and caught him in the hipbone. He winced but continued on.

‘You’re holding back, My Lord.’

‘I am not accustomed to sparring with someone in a dress.’

She threw the sword into the muddy ground. ‘I hoped you were different.’

Lyanna picked up the dirty hem of her skirts and stormed away.

She hardly spoke to him for the rest of the day, which did not trouble his routine much. The following morning she was in the yard before him, wearing leather riding clothing much more suitable for training.

‘Lyanna, what-’

‘I challenge you and I expect you to honour that challenge by fighting me properly.’

Rhaegar bowed to her, raised his sword and they began. Not one to decline a formal challenge, he fought as if his opponent was a grown man - not necessarily the Sword of the Morning - and it surprised her into a stumble, but she remained up upright and held onto her sword.

Her technique was a little better than the day before, but still unrefined and sloppy, as if she had some half-taught and half-remembered lessons stored in her memory which had been awoken slightly in the past day. She had been trained, but not consistently: allowed to train but not required, and it showed.

‘Who was your master, Lady Lyanna?’

‘I didn’t have one, not really.’ He knew it. ‘Master Cassel let me train with Benjen but not since I turned thirteen. I wasn’t… I had to practice on my own in the godswood after that. I know I’m not good enough, and don’t think I’m not appreciative of your indulgence now.’

‘You’re untrained,’ he said as he parried an attack. ‘It is not the same thing.’

‘Will you train me?’

‘Alas, should word get back to my father, he would likely take offence.’

Thrust. ‘He does that.’

‘He is… prone to see treason-’ he dodged her sword, spun on his heel and shoved her back a little. ‘See it where it doesn’t exist.’

She stumbled and hissed as she turned her ankle. He caught her arm with his free hand and stopped her falling into the mud.

‘We are finished.’ His reaction was swift.

Lyanna regained her balance and raised her sword. ‘We are not finished.’

She thrust at him, her attack swift but not measured, and he relieved her of her sword in short order.

‘Well fought, my lady.’ He bowed to her and she copied in return. Again an impulse took him: ‘We practice every day. If you should chance to be here, you might find a teacher from time to time.’

From then on, Lyanna joined him every two mornings. He felt he got to know her better in the practice yard in a turn of the moon than he would have from a year of beddings.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments welcome!


	15. Three Courtly Ladies

Cersei I

 

King’s Landing was boring without Prince Rhaegar there. With the Dornish Princess locked away, the only focus for women at court was the Queen, and she was always so wrapped up in the little prince, or shut away “ill”, that Cersei’s days were unfocused and dull. Her father didn’t like to have her around when he was working and with Jaime away with Lord Crakehall she had nothing.

So, she formed her own clique of young court women of good name and breeding. She felt secure, as the daughter of the Hand and a Lannister, as their leader. Delena Florent and the soon-to-be-wed Melessa Florent were easy to bend to her will. Mariya Darry thought herself a cut above because her uncle Ser Willem was Master-At-Arms, but that was nothing compared to _Lannister_. Jocelyn Swyft, her own handmaiden, was good for persuading to do the less-pleasant tasks and challenges that came to Cersei’s mind: she had been made to steal into the kitchens and take a full flagon of wine for Cersei’s little gang to consume in secret one night.

Gods, that had been fun. They had gathered in Cersei’s rooms, where nobody would trouble them. Drunk, the young ladies’ tongues had loosened and quite aside from anything else, Cersei had gathered enough blackmail to keep any of them in line.

A handful more cadet Lannisters and minor lords’ daughters rounded out her exclusive group, depending on who was present in King’s Landing. She didn’t want too large a group.

Presently, they were gathered in Cersei’s generously-sized and opulent suite of rooms in the Tower of the Hand. It was a fine afternoon, getting to be springtime, and they were tucking into a pleasant lunch after a hard morning’s needlework.

‘Did you hear about the Prince?’ Mariya asked as if it was nothing.

Cersei wanted to claw her eyes out for speaking so casually about Prince Rhaegar, the man she had been _fated_ to one day marry. ‘What news?’

‘All the news from Dragonstone suggests that if the Princess is not yet with child, she will be very soon. They spend almost all their time shut away in _his_ rooms. She doesn’t even use her own!’

‘How very primitive,’ Cersei bit back. ‘I expect nothing less from an uncouth _creature_.’

She missed the look that passed between Melessa, Delena and Mariya.

‘She is our Princess,’ Melessa ventured. ‘I am glad that they are so… well-matched. It bodes well for the future. I pray to the Mother that we are gifted with a new prince soon.’

‘My sister says they spent hours shut away together in his solar, as well. That Princess Lyanna is learning High Valyrian! She’s taught Selyse some phrases too!’

_Princess Lyanna_. The label made Cersei want to vomit. How dare she act so bawdily around the refined prince? He probably hardly knew what to do with such a wife!

‘I will always want for the best for the Kingdoms,’ she said grandly. ‘Prince Rhaegar is the very best of men and I am sure he is dedicated to that goal himself, no matter how distasteful!’

‘Yes Cersei,’ Mariya replied, a curious smile upon her lips. ‘It sounds most distasteful.’

The girls - foolish, foolish girls! - giggled. Cersei scowled at them and took another grape. They were idiots, it was true, but with every possibility that Lyanna carried a princeling in her icy Northern womb, Cersei’s own chances at becoming Princess to Rhaegar - beloved Rhaegar! - were reduced.

Yet she did not exactly fear, for her father had promised she would be a queen one day, and Tywin Lannister always kept his promises.

 

*

 

Elia I

 

Elia was tired again. Being shut away in her gilded prison worked more against her good health than six days’ hard riding. She had little opportunity for meaningful exercise and she could feel herself slipping further and further away. It was surely the King’s intention: he could not openly act against Dorne but he could wear her down.

Ashara had rather more freedom to move around the castle, but did not exercise that right much since Brandon Stark had gone. Elia felt sorry for her friend, who had never expected to find someone to like quite as much as she did. Still, Brandon Stark was an inconstant, selfish man and Ashara was better off without him…

She appeared then with a tray of fresh fruit, a jug of lemon water, and the latest letters from Dragonstone. Arthur wrote regularly to his sister and it was Elia’s only way of knowing how Rhaegar and his _new_ wife were.

She liked Lyanna well enough after spending some time with the girl until she was packed off to Dragonstone to have dragon babies. Elia liked her, but could not deny the hurt that _she_ was not the mother of dragons as she had hoped she would be.

If only her womb had quickened with life in those first few moons with Rhaegar. Sometimes she woke up aflame, bright and arousing dreams having taken her over. It was cruel, to have such a life taken away, even if she had felt only fondness for the prince.

The King’s disfavour was a powerful weapon.

‘Will you read Arthur’s letter, Ashara?’ she asked.

‘Dear sister…’ Ashara curled up onto the cushions beside her friend. ‘I hope my letter finds you and your friends well and enjoying the newly bright weather. Life here at Dragonstone continues pleasantly as always. My Prince is the best company as you can imagine, and we spend many hours sparring and joking. The Princess is also fast becoming a good friend. She misses being able to ride of course, and I expect we will take a trip to the mainland soon, unless a happy event takes over, and that might happen at any time. I am well pleased with the young men I am training here, and…’

Ashara trailed off. ‘The rest is dull rubbish about swords and the like.’

Elia closed her eyes. ‘He is pleased with her, then.’

‘So it would appear.’

Elia felt deflated. She had always harboured a hope that the winds might change again and she would find herself back in place as the future Queen. She held no particular ambition for herself, but the idea of being the mother of Kings and Princes was intoxicating. Oberyn had always said that it was the only task worthy of her.

She hadn’t always wanted it… once she would have been quite happy with being the adored wife of a knight or a lord, Queen of her own castle in her way.

And then Rhaegar. It was cruel to be given such a man and then have him taken away.

She was exhausted into near-paralysis by inaction and sadness. ‘I wish to sleep, Ash.’

‘Of course, Princess. I will return later. Sleep well.’

 

*

 

Selyse I

 

‘Selyse, take the morning for whatever you like,’ The Princess told her. It was a common enough refrain. ‘I’ll be in the yard.’

‘Yes, Your Grace.’

Lyanna raised an eyebrow at her, but otherwise did not comment. She could _not_ call a princess by her name, no matter how many times the Princess asked her to. It just wasn’t right.

She felt all the honour of being named the Princess of Dragonstone’s lady-in-waiting, but had not _wanted_ to wait hand and foot on another girl barely older than she herself. She had not wanted to leave home, but here she was on Dragonstone and it was… not bad.

Princess Lyanna only needed her occasionally and was more than happy to let Selyse fill her time however she liked otherwise. Oh, she was an odd sort, and it had taken Selyse some time to grow accustomed to seeing her in the yard with a sword in hand… but she admired the Princess just the same.

Her father had been clear that she should write to him regularly and Selyse was clever enough to understand what was being asked of her. She was more than prepared to tell all… until they arrived.

On their first day in Dragonstone, Lyanna had looked around her rooms. ‘Well this won’t do for you, will it? You’re a lady and I won’t have you sleeping at the end of my bed like a servant! I wouldn’t want a poor bloody servant to sleep there either!’

Before nightfall, Selyse had her own set of rooms next to the Princess’ rooms.

‘You and I should be friends,’ Lyanna said. ‘I can’t imagine you wanted to trail after a wild creature like me, and I’m sorry that you were forced to come here with me.’

‘Your Grace, I was happy to serve-’

‘I do not need much in the way of coddling,’ Lyanna interrupted. ‘I hope we will be friends, Lady Selyse. You and I are the only ladies here, after all.’

Selyse was not overly fond of spending much time with other people, and it must have shown on her face.

‘As far as I’m concerned, Dragonstone is yours to roam as you see fit. My husband says there is a good library and you can make use of it. You may use every scrap of fabric and thread, for I won’t go near them. Let us live the lives we choose while we are so far from the judgemental eyes of court, Selyse.’

It had been perplexing then, but within a few days, Selyse was intoxicated by the freedom afforded to her. She liked to watch the women in the kitchens, and nobody stopped her observing and asking questions, and then finally joining in. They liked to talk to her about their recipes and ideas, and under Selyse the Dragonstone kitchens produced all manner of unusual combinations which the residents enjoyed very much.

She liked to read while watching them train in the yard, and took a strange pride in how well the Princess was developing her martial skills. She loved how fierce her Princess was, like Brave Dany Flint or the Rhoynish warrior princesses of old…

So it was not difficult for Selyse to write to her father with stories of how everyone was getting along. It was not difficult for her to leave certain facts out: that the Prince certainly trained in the yard every day was mentioned; that his partner was sometimes the Princess was not. It was easy to write and say that the Prince and Princess got along very well; it was easy to omit that it was almost certainly platonic at present.

She knew her place had been secured to spy for the King, though nobody had said as much. She also knew that her loyalty lay not with him, but with the Princess who had given her the gift of freedom as much as she could.

And nobody told her she should, but if she wrote in such a way to imply that the Prince and Princess were hugely and amorously in love, knowing that it would help their cause, that was just how her correspondent chose to interpret the words.

Selyse was not pretty, she was not especially intelligent, but she could size up a situation when it was presented to her, and why would she go against a kind Prince and a friendly Princess when the alternative was the mad King who made her insides churn with fear every time she was present in the Great Hall?

So, when the Princess told her she had the morning free, it was easy to take up a book and position herself on the balcony above the training yard.

‘Selyse!’ Princess Lyanna waved up to her from the yard. ‘Are you sure you won’t join us?’

They had been on Dragonstone for several moons now, and Lyanna had taken to inviting her to train. It was ludicrous of course, but Selyse puffed with pride at being noticed, at being included.

‘One day you may want to protect yourself against someone terrible,’ Lyanna called up. ‘I would have my ladies able to defend their own honour… but it is your choice.’

And it was _her choice_. No King would give her that, would he?

‘Lady Selyse,’ Rhaegar now called. ‘If you change your mind, I will be happy to train you myself.’

‘And I, my lady!’ Arthur echoed.

She put down the book.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps a bit of filler, but I wanted to give some idea as to what is being said about R+L regardless of the truth of them...
> 
> Thanks to Dr Holland for our awesome chat last night about this and what's coming up... 
> 
> The next bit is essentially written, so shouldn't be long in coming, and we're not far off Harrenhal...


	16. Dragon Roar, Wolf Howl

Lyanna VI

 

Lyanna did not love Dragonstone.

She liked the dark castle itself, with its glittering, opalescent dragon-glass and mysterious nooks and crannies, but its location on a not-especially-big island restricted her ability to roam, which grew more frustrating with every day.

Lyanna was certain that Vhagar would soon start to hate her if they didn’t get to ride out soon and her wolf-blood was beginning to build up into what she knew from bitter experience would be a raging torrent of _something_. Rhaegar hadn’t yet seen her in a true fit of bad temper, and she wasn’t sure she wanted him to. She did not like herself much when she was in such tempests, and if her father’s comments over the years were any indication, nobody else did either.

There was plenty to _do,_ but nothing that really called to her: she would never be bored enough to do needlework, she was not the greatest of readers and in any case, most of the available texts concerned dragons or prophecies (or both) and she felt no connection to either subject.

Being a naturally sociable person, Lyanna took to writing letters and struck up regular communications with Ned, Benjen and her good-mother. Letters to and from Elia and Ashara would have been nice, but the risk of discovery was too great. She had not been a very great letter writer when Ned and Brandon had been sent from home, but she felt the distance more keenly now and it was not as difficult as imagined to keep up the letters which would pass so slowly along the Kingsroad.

Brandon was never a regular correspondent and she expected nothing less, but she was curious about how his visit to Riverrun had gone. Ned had made an oblique reference to some young ward of Lord Hoster but being ever-discreet had not gone into detail.

The Queen was a faithful correspondent but her letters were not always engaging or particularly interesting. The letters were full of Viserys, which was nice, but also went into excruciating detail about Court and the minutiae of life there.

Given though, that spies abounded, it was also information of the blandest kind. Rhaella made no remarks that could be taken wrongly or cause offence, so they were incredibly dull.

Only after several letters did Lyanna being to start seeing the code within which the Queen wrote, and that what she did not say was as important as what she did. She used words to imply rather than state, and it took some getting used to.

_“Lord Varys has been most attentive to my dear husband”_ meant that the King and his whispering acolyte were plotting something. _“The King’s warmest regards”_ usually meant someone was about to see the business end of a pyre, while _“tired and emotional”_ meant drunk off his arse.

_“The King has been most devoted to me of late,”_ Lyanna realised with horror, after a few letters, meant that the King was raping his wife again.

The thought of her gentle, fragile good-mother being required to submit to a man who was as vile as he was insane made her blood boil. She wanted to speak to Rhaegar about it, but how could she broach such a subject? They were not yet intimate or even familiar enough for her to even guess how he would take it.

They had their moments, still. He seemed to truly enjoy training her many mornings, and when she did take up something to read it was often to sit with him while he worked through his papers, of which a never-ending stack was always present on his desk.

Lyanna truly enjoyed spending time with Rhaegar. He was amusing and even sweet when the mood touched him. He could engage her in conversations that lasted for hours that felt like minutes. He was apparently even genuinely interested in her thoughts and opinions in a way she had never known a man to be - except Ned, perhaps. Dinner with Rhaegar and his friends was always good fun, and she laughed a lot more than she expected from such a match.

Life was far better than she could have hoped, and then a letter arrived from the Queen which baffled her entirely.

_“Rhaegar’s raven arrived this night, bearing news of your sad loss, and I could not wait until morning to write, dear good-daughter…”_

Lyanna frowned, but read on. What sad news?

_“It is not unusual to lose a child, especially in the early stages, although I know from my own experience that this does not lessen the pain in your heart-”_

What in _all_ the Seven Kingdoms, the Summer Isles and far-flung Asshai was Rhaella talking about?

Seeking answers, she strode through the castle to Rhaegar in his solar. He was, as ever, surrounded by books. And papers. Oh, the stacks of papers! How did he find anything? He was huddled over his desk, writing furiously. He had caught some strands of hair in wet ink and the ends were stained black.

He was always so perfectly turned out that a moment of imperfection such as this was almost more intimate than seeing him naked. That was a different set of confusing thoughts altogether-

She was getting distracted and shook her head to return to the matter at hand: ‘Why does your mother think I’ve had a miscarriage?’

He replaced his pen into its well, turned and met her firm grey stare with a calm unapologetic one of his own. ‘Because that is what I told my father.’

‘How could you do such a thing?!’ She tossed the letter at him. ‘Your mother is heartbroken for me!’

‘Two moons ago I told him you were expecting-’

‘Why would you do that?’

‘To stop him sending for you! Because _eight whole_ _moons_ is more than enough time to get a child on you as far as he is concerned. He wanted to haul you back there so Pycelle and his cronies could prod and poke at you-’

The thought of Pycelle being anywhere near her made her skin crawl and her bile rise. ‘But then why-’

‘Such a deception has a very limited lifespan. Worry not, I will not repeat it. I would just see you safe for as long as possible.’

‘You could just come to me.’

‘You are still a chi-’

‘I am not!’ She winced: the way she stamped her foot against the floor did not help her cause. ‘I will turn fifteen in five days and we have been married not much less than a year.’

His head dropped and he stared at his shoes. ‘I know.’

‘You cannot do this. Not to me and certainly not to your mother.’

‘I know. I am truly sorry, but it felt necessary.’

Lyanna waited to see if Rhaegar would say any more, but he turned back to his books. It was badly done of him, but she understood what he was trying to do and even appreciated the intention.

‘May I help you at all, husband?’

‘Unless you want to read a nine hundred year old scroll saved from Old Valyria-’

‘I can try.’

‘You do not read High Valyrian.’

That felt like a challenge, and she did love a challenge. ‘Time to learn.’

She was too frustrated to back out, and so spent the next three hours with a translating tablet in one hand and the scroll in the other.

After three hours, she was hungry and tired, and her eyes burned with overuse, and she had a newfound respect for the ancient poetry and language of his ancestors.

‘Teach me High Valyrian, properly?’ she asked. ‘We hardly have anything else to do on this barren rock.’

He scowled at the insult to Dragonstone. ‘You-’

‘I was teasing, Rhaegar! You must admit it is the exact opposite of the North.’

‘We can go riding on the mainland soon, if you would like.’

Her blood rose at the thought of riding properly again. ‘Yes, I would like that very much. And the High Valyrian?’

‘Come to me tomorrow afternoon and we will begin.’

‘Training in the morning, lessons in the afternoon. If I didn’t know better, I would think I was asking you to teach me how to be a prince.’

He raised a silvery eyebrow. ‘Are you?’

‘Perhaps. How am I doing?’

‘Splendidly.’ He was rarely effusive, so his praise was all the sweeter to her.

‘Will you play this evening?’

‘You don’t want harp lessons as well, do you?’

‘No, I just like to listen to you. I’ve yet to hear you sing-’

He looked away then. ‘Perhaps later.’

‘As you wish my lord.’ She rose. ‘I have been too long cooped up and have the urge to roam. To ride to the top of a hill and see everything laid out beneath, for as far as I can see.’

He pushed his papers aside at last and regarded her with a warm, fond expression playing upon his face. ‘You really are half-wild.’

Lyanna felt a surge of warmth roll over her: he meant it as a compliment! Few men had approached Lyanna Stark as she saw herself to be.

‘Oh, at _least_ half. My father says he is still convinced he has a very well-behaved daughter living north of the Wall and she was swapped with a wildling as an infant.’

‘I know which girl I would prefer.’

She flushed hot and red, for he was being very gallant and rather flirtatious in a way previously unseen. Did he mean it, or was it merely preamble to the activities she knew would surely resume one of these days?

She certainly had no objection in theory. Indeed, their married life so far had offered inspiration for ardour even if it had not provided opportunity for anything except solitary release. She had even overcome her initial maidenish shame at such, reasoning that it was surely better than seeking assistance from anyone who was not Rhaegar Targaryen.

She wondered idly what would happen if he were to chance upon her-

‘Where are you, Lyanna?’ He interrupted her unexpected and vivid daydream.

‘Sorry?’ She blinked hurriedly, bamboozled by the direction her thoughts had taken and that he had interrupted them.

‘You looked like you were a million leagues away.’

‘Twas nothing. I shall- rather, _shall_ I see you for dinner?’

‘Of course, my lady.’

She left his solar with haste. He was an intensely frustrating man: by turns burning hot and distant, icy cold. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was The Prince That Was Promised simply because he seemed quite capable of hosting Ice and Fire within his single being.

She rather loved how he refused to exercise the supposed rights he had over her. Their first experience together had been pleasant, but it was also overwhelming and her examination by Pycelle the next morning left her feeling sick to think on it. It was - urges aside - for the best.

At times like this, she was so jealous of womanly Princess Elia that she could rip her throat out with her teeth, like she truly was a wolf. The notion never lasted beyond the faintly fantastical and she always felt guilty for wishing harm on a perfectly lovely women she herself had displaced, who she genuinely liked.

It was not Elia with whom Lyanna’s rage really rested. If only she herself was less… _herself_. Rhaegar could hardly find a scrawny wolf child alluring, with her leather breeches and mud streaked face and broken fingernails. If she did interest him in her more usual state, she would be concerned that his taste ran to young lads. Above all, she knew that as long as she stayed childless she was in far too much danger.

Despite her misgivings, a child was still the only real option open, and there was only one way to get that. She just had to complete her growing up first. She was _so close_ _…_ she cursed Elia again for her womanhood, then stopped herself: such a thought was proof of her immaturity and it was beneath a Stark of Winterfell.

She would just have to wait. Surely it would not be much longer?

 

*

 

Rhaegar VI

 

The addition of training together, however informally it might be, enhanced Rhaegar’s understanding of his wife immeasurably. Indeed, he grew to know her in a way that the strict rhythms of life at court had prevented. In King’s Landing he had hardly _seen_ her!

Lyanna was determined and indefatigable when she chose; respectful of others’ superior knowledge and skill; a quiet study and never afraid to get hurt. She was quick to anger but it burned out quickly if given a healthy outlet. Her true temper was ice cold and unyielding, and he sincerely hoped never to provoke it. She did not mind being made to look foolish if she had been foolish; she refused to be belittled.

For her fifteenth name day, now two days past, she had asked for nothing more than a trip to the mainland to ride her horse Vhagar until they were both quite worn out.

‘You might also like to hunt,’ she had said. ‘We all could.’

He had a bracelet of silver and rubies made in Oldtown to a design of his own and it arrived just in time. She had smiled to see the twisted silver weirwood twigs and deep red stones-as-leaves. It had looked very fine on her narrow wrist, and reported she liked it very much, but she had still been more excited at the prospect of an adventure.

She did not consider her sex to be a hindrance to anything she put her mind to.

Gods, she would have been a terrible Baratheon wife. Perhaps, he thought with some wry amusement, not as bad a husband at Robert would have been for her. Her betrothal to his cousin had not come to pass, but Rhaegar felt it irritate him more now, not less.

‘Hey!’ Arthur darted away as Rhaegar’s practice sword nearly cracked his pate wide open. ‘Concentrate, Rhaegar!’

His heart thunked heavy with anger at himself. ‘My apologies, friend. My mind wandered.’

‘Clearly. Nowhere good, if that strike was any clue. What bothered you so much so suddenly?’

‘Robert Baratheon.’ The truth escaped before he could halt it.

Arthur smirked. ‘For why?’

‘No reason.’

Arthur lowered his sword and stuck the point into the ground. He wiped his brow and glanced up at where Lyanna was watching, having felt disinclined to join them this time. Her lady Selyse was with her but looked bored and cold. Mind you, Selyse usually looked like that, and she did not seem unhappy, so perhaps it was just how her face sat at rest.

‘Really.’

‘The idea of him marrying Lyanna,’ Rhaegar admitted.

Why he was being so open he knew not, but it was Arthur after all, to whom he had trusted greater secrets.

A lad rushed over with tankards of pale ale for them both, which they drank thirstily.

‘She is yours now. I expect you must feel this towards anyone who might otherwise have possessed her.’

‘I do not possess her! She is my wife, not my slave!’

‘Tell that to-’ Arthur stopped himself and became incredibly interested in the contents of his tankard.

‘I know.’ Rhaegar drained his own tankard and swung his blade a few times, the metal swishing through the air as if a man stood there. ‘I wish I could…’

‘So do we all. Sadly, we both swore oaths.’

‘Yes. And… I do love him still, gods help me. For all his crimes and wicked, wicked ways… he was not always mad.’

‘No, but he was never kind.’

‘He was to me, once.’

‘Rarefied company. Almost unique, one might say.’

‘There is nothing to be done.’

‘No?’

‘No. I cannot - I _must_ not - become like him in order to make a better world. I cannot be greater if I start like him. There will be a way. The Prince That Was Promised-’

‘Respectfully, my friend… you are not likely to fulfil that prophecy any time soon.’

Both now looked up at Lyanna and she waved down at them without knowing she was the subject of their conversation.

Rhaegar’s purple gaze narrowed at his friend and the glinting sword swung into the air at the invisible foe once more. ‘That is of no-’

‘Yes, it is.’ Arthur’s own violet eyes matched Rhaegar’s for stubbornness. ‘Not the specifics, I grant you. But the Prince concerns us all and so too therefore does his creation.’

‘She is a child!’ Rhaegar hissed.

‘Not any longer, if you care to observe! You will fight her with a sword, but you will not employ _your_ sword-’

‘Arthur! You forget yourself, Ser!’

‘I apologise for being so direct.’ He was not sorry at all, and a burning rage was building inside Rhaegar’s chest like a small campfire recently kindled. ‘But you must know that this cannot continue.’

‘I know! Soon!’ The fire flared and he sliced ineffectually at the air to release his furious energy somehow.

‘I trust you know what you’re doing, _Your Grace_ , but please consider doing whatever you have planned just a little quicker. We are all so tired of this.’

It was the closest to treason that Ser Arthur Dayne the Ever-Loyal had ever spoken.

‘I will consider it. I _am_ considering it all Arthur, I promise. Just… leave me be.’

Rhaegar tossed his sword away and peeled off his leather arm-guards as he strode away towards his solar.

 

Arthur II

 

The Sword of the Morning would be amused if it were a less serious situation. The sight of his oft-aloof, ever-calm friend shuffling around a girl like he was himself an unproven boy instead of a grown man, brought a smile to his lips.

The reality underneath was no laughing matter. Letters from Ser Gerold spoke to the problems in King’s Landing and now some bastard called The Smiling Knight was causing havoc in the Kingswood. The King had realised that sending inexperienced men to deal with the Smiler and his so-called Brotherhood was insufficient; a raven fresh from King’s Landing commanded Arthur return to deal with them, yet he did not want to leave the Prince and Princess as they were.

He snorted at himself: his wishes were of less importance than those of the Smiling Knight!

Arthur informed them of the order as soon as he could: Rhaegar and his wife were taking lunch on terrace overlooking the open sea. He smiled to see them so cosily situated: Rhaegar was comfortable enough with her to let his stiff-backed posture relax and the Princess was sat with her feet up on the balcony’s railing as she picked at the fruit on her plate.

‘You are leaving?’ Lyanna’s scowl was genuinely crestfallen as she tossed a grape into the air and caught it in her mouth. ‘You must go of course, but you know he’ll sulk while you’re gone.’

Rhaegar rolled his eyes at her. In response, she stuck her tongue and lobbed another grape at him. He deftly moved and caught it in his teeth. It was a sweet and amusing scene, if only they were siblings and not a married couple upon whom the future of the realm depended. Perhaps Targaryens were so accustomed to marrying their sisters that Rhaegar needed to become fond of her first. He shook his head to get rid of that rather alarming idea. Rhaegar was not like his ancestors in that regard, and had said as much before.

‘I hope to return as soon as I may,’ he told them. ‘By then you may have happy news-’

‘Gods Dayne!’ Rhaegar boomed. ‘Not you too!’

‘Don’t mind him,’ Lyanna retorted. ‘He’s just… frustrated.’

There was no proper answer to that, so Arthur chose a tactical retreat, and left them to their lunch.

‘Don’t look at me like that,’ he heard her say as he left. ‘You know my feelings on the matter.’

He left early the next morning, Dawn strapped to his back and white cloak hidden for now: it would be safer passage that way. A frisson of fear slid down his spine, as it always did just before facing a true foe. He let it take him for a moment: it was the fear that kept him quick and deadly, that kept him alive.

He had not expected them to see him off, but both the Prince and Princess of Dragonstone had roused early to do so. He embraced his friend briefly, and was only a little surprised when Lyanna imitated. They had become firm friends and he realised that he would miss her almost as much as he would miss his best friend.

‘You must come back,’ she whispered. ‘Do not be foolhardy.’

‘I shall not, Your Grace. In return, you must look after our Prince.’

Her grey eyes shone earnestly. ‘I promise you, Ser Arthur. Be safe and well.’

He was gladdened to see that, as his boat set off, Rhaegar and Lyanna stood arm in arm as they waved him off.

The winds were kind, and it was only three days’ sail until he met up with Lord Crakehall and his squire Jaime Lannister and a small host, and travelled with them to the Kingswood. Jaime Lannister was a beautiful blond boy with cynical green eyes which softened to see The Sword of the Morning. Arthur was a modest man, but even his ego was stroked by such obvious hero worship.

‘Come, let us put the Kingswood Brotherhood to the test.’

‘How did you leave the Prince and his lady?’ Crakehall asked. ‘I hear they are getting along very well.’

‘Prince Rhaegar is fortunate in his wife.’

‘The new one,’ Jaime cut in, a queer look on his face. Arthur remembered then that Cersei Lannister had fancied herself as the new Princess of Dragonstone.

‘Prince Rhaegar has always been so fortunate. Yet I do believe he is happy with his current situation. Now, let us away… I am eager to put the Smiling Knight down before he can harm anyone else.’

As they rode towards victory or doom, Arthur prayed again that his friends would be forced to turn to each other more if he were not present. He prayed that his absence would be a blessing to them.

Yet, he most fervently prayed that he would return to them well, that he would return to find them well.

 

*

 

Lyanna & Rhaegar II

 

The night of Arthur’s departure, Rhaegar escorted his wife - he kept reminding himself of the title - to her rooms after a light meal. It was a red sky, so he predicted tomorrow would be fine.

‘Good night,’ she said at the door.

Rhaegar felt unexpectedly nervous, like a boy of few name days, not a man of nearly twenty-two. ‘May I invite you for a… game of cyvasse?’

Lyanna’s eyebrow rose, just as Arthur’s had earlier. ‘As you like, my prince.’

He set up the table in his room opposite hers, uncomfortably close to the bed they had never shared.

Lyanna looked curiously across the room, having never really entered before. Their mummers’ shows for the other inhabitants of Dragonstone had always involved him entering her room. The room was clearly intended to intimidate, even to frighten. She would _not_ be frightened, not by Rhaegar. Of all the people she knew, he was almost the last who would hurt her.

‘This is surely the manliest room I have ever seen.’

It was quite true, in every sense. The walls were the bare black stone from which the Dragonmont was formed. A thick red rug stretched across the room and, as well as a large bed constructed from ancient weirwood, there was a sofa upholstered in dark red and black silk.

‘Don’t you get weary of black and red?’ she asked. ‘It’s everywhere!’

‘They are the colours of my House.’ He reached over and tugged her grey sleeve. ‘And it takes one to know one.’

‘Oh, I’m not nearly as bad as you! I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear anything but black. And now this room. It is so very, very Targaryen.’

‘These were Aegon the Conqueror’s rooms.’

She blanched and her mouth formed a silent “o”.

‘At last!’ Rhaegar threw his head back and laughed heartily. ‘I have rendered Lyanna Stark speechless. I am already victorious this night!’

She settled down into a chair at the cyvasse table and watched him set up for a game.

‘You did nothing, husband _dear_. Twas the Conqueror. I… It just… It is unreal to be in a room once occupied by him so intimately. Which wife do you suppose shared it?’ She leaned across the cyvasse table to stroke the soft velvet coverlet on the bed. ‘Soft.’

‘I have always been told that this was his own chamber and he visited his queens quite separately.’

The game began, and continued in quiet for a short time, until Lyanna felt the need to speak: ‘Did you- have you and Elia shared this room?’

‘No. She disliked how dark and spare it was.’

‘I like it.’

‘Do you like it in truth, or do you like it because she did not?’

‘I am not sure.’

‘Honesty like that will get you into trouble.’

‘So I’ve been told.’ She licked her lips and decided to take advantage of his light, almost flirtatious, mood. ‘Do you like me, Rhaegar?’

His elephant piece froze in mid-air. ‘Like you? Of course.’

‘Do you _desire_ me?’

‘Lyanna-’

‘I am very confused. You say I am in danger until I can give you a child or three, yet you will not help me achieve that goal.’

‘I wish… you are so young.’

‘I am not so young, not since my father has been seeking a husband for me, since I flowered and became valuable. Not since seeing the many goings-on at Court, and in some ways, not since you were so worried that you bedded me for safety, not for love, and were proved right the next morning before the sun was fully risen. All that time is gone. Do you want me, Rhaegar? Because it has been nearly a year and I am _not a child_.’

‘I- Yes.’

‘Then…’ She moved a piece and took his knight. ‘Fear no longer. I am ready.’

She stood up, unlaced her dress and let it fall to the floor.

Rhaegar swallowed thickly. Arthur was right: his wife was not a child and his inner dragon woke with a roar that surged through his entire self. She had been almost-fully grown when she galloped into the Red Keep and she was unarguably grown now. He reached up and plucked the knight piece out of her hand. ‘Enough cyvasse. For now.’

‘I wonder at you waiting until Arthur left,’ she said, now sliding out of her smallclothes. ‘Is there something you would tell me?’

‘Yes.’

‘What?’

‘Do not talk of _Arthur Dayne_ when we are in here and you are removing your clothes.’

‘But-’

Rhaegar stood abruptly, knocking the cyvasse table over in the process. Pieces skittered across the floor with light clacking sounds but he paid them no attention at all. He pulled her to him and her nimble fingers began working at his tunic and his breeches as his burning lips found her warm, soft skin and his hands slid along the soft curves she had been hiding under her training clothes and dresses.

The dragon roared, the wolf howled and the world shrank to four black walls and a white weirwood bed.

 

*

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it - quite a long chapter for now, but I think it provides a bit of a satisfactory resolution to one particular problem... just in time for lots more!
> 
> 'Tired and emotional' is not mine. It's a euphemisn for drunk which is now so common that journalists can't always use it because it could itself be considered defamatory. It amuses me...
> 
> Hope all y'all liked it - feel free to leave comments of praise, questions and constructive criticism. Flames, you can keep.


	17. Twenty Days

Rhaegar VII

 

Rhaegar believed he had some idea now why a maiden’s virtue was so well protected: her blossoming was quite something to behold, full of myriad powers and delights. To introduce her to it was intoxicating and his beautiful, passionate young wife’s own awakening ardour was precious.

At least in Dragonstone they did not need guards at the door all the time, as it would have been in Maegor’s Holdfast. It did mean he had to call for someone the next morning and wait awkwardly for an arrival.

A servant dutifully attended them. Rhaegar stopped him at the door, having eventually shrugged on a robe. ‘Arrange for food to be brought up - we will not be down for breakfast.’

‘Or dinner!’ Lyanna called out with a giggle in her voice. ‘Tell everyone to leave us well alone. Indefinitely.’

He shut the door behind him, the sound of retreating footsteps behind him. Oh, how his heart swelled at sight of her: one shapely leg under the sheet and the other above; her back bare and exposed to him in a creamy panes of newly discovered loveliness. No, not his heart. It could not be. He was a man, and any man would be so affected.

‘Are you trying to kill me, wife?’

‘No more than you are me.’

It was surely a basic lust for a pretty young woman who, it turned out, returned that lust? Her wolf blood was easy to wake in the right circumstances, but could he imagine life without her? For her own sake, it could not be love. He was not so moved, he could not risk it.

‘Rhaegar, you have the most peculiar look on your face.’

‘Do I?’

‘Yes. Like you’ve just been told your best friend died. I have no doubt that he is well. I expect he’s defeated the Smiling Knight already and is on his way back.’

She frowned and sat up, pulling the sheet around herself to protect against the sharp sea breeze rolling into the room as the wind picked up outside.

‘I was just thinking about how I would wish-’ He sank back down onto the bed.

‘Wish?’ she prompted, her fingertips sliding along his shoulder and down his arm.

‘That things were different. Better. For us, I mean- No. I’m not explaining myself. I find it so hard to speak my meaning with you, while to everyone else I am erudition personified.’

‘Most people are fully clothed when you’re talking to them.’

‘Perhaps that is it.’ He imitated her, his fingers tracing the outline of her shoulders and her back and along the curve of her bottom, hidden by the sheet. She shivered so pleasingly - not that he would tell her she was _pleasing_! - that he felt his own ardour awaken once again.

‘It is so peaceful here,’ she whispered, her lips close to his ear. ‘Like we are all there is in the world. Just we two.’

‘I like that idea. Just we two.’

She tangled her fingers in his long mess of silvery hair, and gently pulled his head down to meet hers. ‘Just we two. Whatever can we do to amuse ourselves?’

‘What we have been doing in here for…’ he glanced out of the window at where the sun was high in the sky, ‘…eleven hours already.’

‘Only eleven hours?’

‘We are not ready to leave yet.’

‘I hope-’ she sucked in a sharp breath as he nipped at her lower lip. ‘Not.’

 

*

 

Rhaegar and Lyanna called for servants to ready a bath an impressive number of hours later. The Prince and Princess of Dragonstone only left the room the next afternoon to a castle full of knowing looks and hardly-concealed giggles.

Lyanna still had enough of the Maiden about her to blush, and was likely also in a certain amount of discomfort, but was Warrior enough to brave it out and meet every glance cast her way.

Rhaegar remained concerned that the gossip inevitably hurtling towards King’s Landing did not undo the careful illusion he had built up previously, and he prayed that their endeavours would have the desired result soon enough. He would wish for more time with Lyanna all to himself, but the security of the realm depended on a Targaryen Prince taking hold in her womb.

Two weeks passed in a haze of flaming desire kindled and quenched. They sparred in the morning, worked together in his solar in the afternoon and shut themselves away at night. It was his old routine in essentials but profoundly, wonderfully enhanced.

It was an almost perfect life, except for the uncertainty surrounding Arthur and the Kingswood Brotherhood, and the possible outrages taking place at the King’s order. Both were easy to forget in the minuscule universe behind his door.

To the shock of some and the delight of many, Prince Rhaegar paused as they crossed the courtyard and kissed his wife full on the mouth, before continuing on their way to his solar.

If he was going to burn (literally or metaphorically), he wanted to make the most of it. The dragon snorted a puff of fire inside, well satisfied with him. The courtly prince tried to object but hadn’t the motivation.

He was sure he was not in love, of course. That would be madness as long as the King still lived. Lyanna’s eyes brightened and his heart thumped heavy in his chest, but he was definitely not in love. At least he could be comforted by the belief that she was not in love with him either. Sex was necessary and it helped they were compatible, but they didn’t need love. Who did, really?

Maester Quinn approached as they walked up the steps and frowned slightly at the Princess’ appearance with him. Rhaegar glared a little at that, but the Maester was concerned more because of the content of the note freshly arrived from King’s Landing. ‘The King asks to see his most beloved son.’

Rhaegar sighed and tugged at his black silk collar where it dug into his skin. ‘When? Now, I suppose?’

‘Yes, my prince.’

‘Does he give a reason?’

‘No, my prince.’

‘Does he mention the princess?’ He was still holding her hand, and squeezed it gently.

‘No, my prince.’

Rhaegar considered the possibilities, but with King Aerys, nobody really knew. ‘Lyanna, you should stay here. I won’t have you put in unnecessary danger. I will take Jon with me. Richard and the castle-guard will guard you until Arthur can return. Gods, I hope he’s sorted those Kingswood bastards out for once and for all.

Lyanna bit her bottom lip and his heart - no, not the heart, the other thing - leapt. ‘Will you be gone long?’

‘Only as long as I must be. He will see the wisdom of my swift return.’

‘Tell him… tell him I’m pregnant if it will help you.’

‘Are you?’ Definitely his heart this time.

It took him a moment to recall that if she was, it could only be very new. He felt like they had lived this new life for only a few hours, and yet forever.

In the presence of the Maester, Lyanna was more composed than he. ‘Not for certain, but it is possible of course…’

‘Maester, make the necessary arrangements. I will leave first thing in the morning.’

‘As you will, my prince.’

‘In the meantime,’ Rhaegar's lips formed a slightly wicked grin, ‘Instruct the kitchens to send lunch to my solar.’

He began to lead Lyanna away, but she tugged at his sleeve. Her flinty eyes were rich with mischief. ‘And dinner.’

His smile hurt in the best way. ‘And dinner.’

 

*

 

Rhaegar left Lyanna sleeping the next morning, but not before taking one last look at her. With the situation in King’s Landing, he might be back within days or he might not see her for… who knew?

Her long dark hair pooled against the red of the pillow she clutched at in sleep. She was tiny in the large bed all on her own, and a momentary impulse to protect her flared within his breast and only ebbed when he reminded himself sternly that he had a wife who could defend herself. He hoped Ser Arthur would return soon, but of all the women he could be wed to, Lyanna Stark was the least in need of protection.

Instead, he pulled his black tunic closed and swept his cloak over his shoulders.

He paused. There was one thing he could do.

 

*

 

Lyanna VII

 

The Princess of Dragonstone awoke later than was her usual habit, and was still so tired that she felt heaviness in her bones like she was weighed down with lead weights. She had sunk heavily into the bed and wanted never to move again.

She roused slowly until she realised that she was alone, and then she was wide awake and angry. Lyanna let out a string of oaths at discovering that she had slept beyond Rhaegar’s departure.

She sat up and then discovered why she felt so heavy: he had draped his cloak over her. Not just any cloak, but the very one he had placed over her shoulders in the sept as they married. It was heavy and warm and smelled like him. Had she been the type she would cry now, but she was not the type.

Her new personal servant girl must have heard her shifting around, for the girl came in at that very moment. She was quite new - Rhaegar and Maester Quinn had searched for just the right, trustworthy person to be so close to the Princess.

‘Are you well, Your Grace?’

‘I overslept.’

‘Yes, Your Grace. The Prince said I should not disturb you-’

‘Did he?’

‘Yes. He said you needed to sleep… and that I am to take the very best care of you while he is gone.’ The girl was as young as Lyanna herself and was quite overcome by having such attention from the beautiful Silver Prince.

‘I’m sure you will, Jessa. Is Selyse around?’

‘She is in the library, I believe.’

‘Then… I would like a bath for now.’

‘I thought you might. Thom and Deryck are bringing the hot water up now.’

 

*

 

A hot bath and a quick breakfast later, Lyanna felt better in body but not in spirit. Whatever had the King demanded Rhaegar for? How long would he be gone? She was not one to _pine_ , but to not know what was going on did not sit well with the girl who had made it her business to know everything going on in Winterfell at any given time.

She spent the day catching up on a few letters that she had neglected over the last weeks, and wrote more detailed responses than necessary in order to kill time.

She sat with Selyse, who read some Essosian poetry translated into the Common Tongue for her. They ate, then retired early. They repeated as much each day, with little variation. Sometimes she worked on improving her High Valyrian and took some pride in teaching Selyse a little. Sometimes she sat with Jessa and taught her to read and write Common, and it was not long until an informal little school of younger servants gathered with the Princess to learn their letters.

Most days, they sat in rooms that looked south, that they might spot ships coming from King’s Landing as soon as may be.

The next nineteen days passed in that fashion. She and Richard Lonmouth took to sparring each morning until he stopped her.

‘I cannot, Your Grace. You are… I could not hurt you.’

‘You _won_ _’t_ hurt me, Lonny. I won’t let you.’

‘Still, Your Grace- You are…’

‘I am what?’

‘A little wild,’ he admitted, reddening.

She laughed. ‘Yes, I suppose I am. I am in very great need of a long hard ride.’

He coughed and she realised the alternate meaning that could be ascribed. ‘Mind out of the gutter, Lonmouth, and sword _up_.’

He coughed again.

She huffed. ‘Oh, shut up.’

Innuendo aside, she meant it in both senses. Rhaegar had promised to take her to the mainland with Vhagar, who was increasingly discontent with life on the little castle-island, and it did not help that in the other sense, she had become too spoilt and now felt the lack of husband sharply indeed.

On the morning of the twentieth day, Jessa spotted a small double-masted schooner coming from the direction of the Blackwater, from King’s Landing. Plenty of ships had passed in both directions, but this little thing bobbed along with the excruciatingly light breeze and finally made port at Dragonstone.

It was all Lyanna could to do not run inelegantly down to the dock, and she was stopped from overreacting by the real possibility that none of the passengers were of interest to her.

Still, Selyse fetched Rhaegar’s cloak for her, and they made their way through Dragonstone to the dock. The schooner was not the only vessel to have docked that day, and the little dock was busy with men loading and unloading goods, yet all made way for the Princess and her lady as they came down from the castle.

The schooner bobbed delicately on the water, its load lightening with every crate and passenger unloaded.

Prince Rhaegar strode off the ship, his eyes searching for his wife, but he did not rush to her side. Rather, he waited until Ser Arthur had disembarked and the reason became clear: Ser Arthur was walking with a cane and needed a little help climbing from ship to shore.

‘Ser Arthur!’ Lyanna moved forward. ‘What happened?’

Arthur rolled his eyes. ‘The Smiling Knight got a lucky strike. However, he had one lucky moment, I had many.’

‘Luck had nothing to do with it,’ Rhaegar added as he discreetly reached out to run a hand along his-her cloak before squeezing her fingers lightly. ‘Come, let us speak inside.’

Ser Arthur refused any assistance on their way through the castle to the Prince’s solar. Rhaegar looked curiously around the room, noting a few differences since he had left, and he leafed through the instructional book about High Valyrian that she had left on his desk with a sheet of slightly clumsy translations written in her own hand.

Lyanna willingly played the role of hostess in that moment, serving them goblets of wine and arranging for plates of food to be brought up.

When it was just the three of them there, she asked about the Kingswood Brotherhood.

‘It was close,’ Ser Arthur told her. ‘But not that close. He caught my leg but I took his life. It was nothing less than such a man deserved. He had brutalised the lives of all who passed through the Kingswood. He and his so-called Brotherhood. Still, I would like as not be dead if not for Jaime Lannister. Ser Jaime now, I should say, for I knighted him there and then. I expect him to be a fine knight.’

Lyanna was impressed: the Lannister boy was no older than she herself, and she was grateful that he had saved the life of the man who had become a dear, dear friend to her.

‘And you, husband?’ she asked, voice slightly trembling. ‘What of the Red Keep? I hope my good-father and good-mother are in excellent health?’

‘They are of course.’ Even if they were being listened to, nobody could see the look that passed between the three of them. ‘My father asked me to Court that I might assist with sentencing the Kingswood Brotherhood, though he hardly needed my assistance. And to see my mother and brother, of course. They are well and send dearest love to you.’

‘I return it. Nothing else?’

‘I do have some good news. There is to be a tourney at Harrenhal three moons hence. Lord Whent wishes to honour his daughter.’

‘A tourney? That sounds fun. When do we leave? You owe me a trip to the mainland, my dear prince.’

‘I told my father that we would travel south shortly before going to the tourney. My mother is especially eager to see you, and my father… is as well.’

Arthur cleared his throat. ‘Well, I think I shall retire now. My leg is still giving me a little pain.’

Lyanna embraced him quickly, glad to see him returned alive, if not quite unscathed. Then, she was left with her husband alone, and wasted no time in going directly to his unoccupied lap. They were a mess of confused, heated kisses for some time.

‘It wasn’t the King,’ Rhaegar mumbled. ‘For once, it was not him. Tywin bloody Lannister.’

‘What about him?’

‘He is sniffing around. He wants me for his daughter-’

‘You are already married to me!’ Lyanna’s wolf blood raged instantly. It was not the simple easily-killed jealousy she had felt briefly towards Elia, but a frozen and unmerciful sort against someone who apparently wanted what was hers.

‘Of course,’ he said, laughing against her throat. ‘It was nothing obvious, but the summons was almost certainly his idea and suddenly bloody Cersei Lannister was everywhere I went. Officially my father wanted me to assist him as his heir. Good experience. Tywin’s fingerprints all over it. The King has no interest in me gaining any experience in kingship for as long as he breathes. Which he hopes is forever.’

‘If you like, I will rip her throat out.’

‘Not necessary. I kept myself away as much as I could. Arthur and Jaime’s return helped to distract her, of course.’

‘I will kill her,’ Lyanna repeated. ‘I don’t mind.’

Rhaegar’s hands slid down to her hips. ‘Angry Lannisters are best avoided. Tywin is shrewd. He was seeking to size me up, see for himself how our marriage fares, while he presented what he believes is an alternative. I am sincerely glad he had not put his plan in motion earlier, for what he saw was a man left miserable, driven to distraction, by being away from his wife’s comely body and her wonderful, beautiful soul.’

She sighed heavily as his hands travelled south along her torso, and as bare skin touched her legs under her skirt. ‘I have missed you.’

‘Terribly?’

‘Dreadfully.’

‘Not as much as I have missed you.’

‘Prove it.’

Once more, the dragon roared and the wolf howled, and all at Dragonstone was well again.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy it! Feedback welcome!
> 
> Now, to serious matters. A number of people have said they think the title is a bit rubbish. I am not necessarily in disagreement. So, if you have any ideas for alternate, better titles for this, let me know.


	18. Duskendale and Beyond

Lyanna VIII

 

The Dragonstone Targaryens had only a short time between the Prince’s return and their departure for the great Tourney at Harrenhal, and that time was spent alternating between catching up with each other and preparing to leave.

Somehow, the twenty days Lyanna had been separated from Rhaegar had felt like years, despite the previous year passing quickly. How relative it all was!

They did their best to establish a civilised routine, but it was true to say that they often emerged later in the mornings than intended - they were both early risers so it was not too scandalously evident - and between them the Prince and Princess found an impressive variety of reasons to retire early from dinner each evening.

No other resident of Dragonstone thought ill of them for it; the older folks smiled indulgently because they knew that such uncomplicated happy, libidinous times could not last indefinitely.

Lyanna found herself loathe to leave. She would have once described the Dragonstone as cold and bleak, but now she knew it as her own starkly beautiful universe. It was exactly where her dragon could be free to unleash himself, where he gained his strength away from the judgemental, politicking smiles of the untrustworthy intriguers of the court. It had looked like a boring black lump of rock on her first viewing, and on her second, third, twentieth and fiftieth viewings, but closer looks revealed the intricacy of the carved dragons, the variations of obsidian to be found, and the awe inspiring power of the volcano itself.

There was one unquestionably good thing about returning to the mainland: Vhagar. She eschewed assistance and led her horse onto the ship personally, talking quietly to him so he would not notice he was now on a rolling, roiling vessel.

Almost all her possessions were packed up to take to the Tourney: her brief life in King’s Landing had not given her opportunity to acquire an unlimited number of suitable dresses, and who knew truly how long it would be until they saw this home of theirs again?

So caught up was she in her thoughts and her concerns for her equine companion, Lyanna was below decks when they departed and it was some time until she went back up.

The ship was not sailing south.

‘I thought you’d like a chance to stretch your legs,’ her husband explained.

She was stood at the prow of the ship as it rose and fell with the tide. He stood close enough behind her that she could take warmth from him and he could curl an arm around her to draw her even closer.

‘We will ride west across to the Kingsroad. Perhaps as far north as Sow’s Horn.’

‘The less time we spend on the water, the better.’ She did not enjoy sailing particularly: could not get her sea legs as well as she would like and there was nowhere to escape on her own or with her prince.

 

*

 

The ship docked at Duskendale, where Lord Rykker greeted them warmly and the small folk cheered them on their way from the dock to the Dun Fort.

Rhaegar clearly hated Duskendale. Outwardly he was as he ever was: neutral and observing, but quiet and aloof. Underneath, he was greatly ill at ease and tugged at his cuffs often, as if the sleeves of his shirt were too short.

‘Are you well?’ she whispered during the feast Lord Rykker held in their honour.

‘No,’ he replied shortly. ‘I would have seen this place torn apart brick by brick.’

She squeezed his hand and wished they were not surrounded by people. This place was not the cause of Aerys’ madness but it contributed enormously to it.

‘Tomorrow we will ride towards the Kingsroad,’ the Prince told her, his formal facade fully in place. ‘My father has - for reasons unknown - decided he will attend the tourney and so we must meet Father’s caravan as soon as we can.’

Her heart dropped out of her chest into her stomach, or so it seemed. Why was the King leaving the Red Keep? Why was he coming to the Tourney? There was only one good reason, and that didn’t bear thinking about!

‘What about your mother? Surely she wanted to see you? We could have gone there first.’

‘She understands.’ Rhaegar smiled tightly and nodded greetings to notable folks seeking his attention, but his conversation remained with his wife. ‘How badly you need to ride out and be free, if only for a while. Besides, the fewer days we have to travel with the King’s party, the better.’

She would not turn down such a gift as that. ‘Thank you, my Prince.’

‘Anything for you, my Princess.’ His facade slipped just a little and his lips twitched with the desire to either speak further, or kiss her, or both.

She blushed furiously and concentrated on the feast going on around them. They did not linger long at the feast: the strains of travelling had caught up with her and she nearly fell asleep on her husband’s shoulder there at her place of honour.

 

*

 

Lyanna rose early the next morning, eager to leave, and she waited impatiently in the Dun Fort’s muddy courtyard while a Rykker steward brought her beloved Vhagar to her. Her leather riding breeches creaked a little from lack of use, but as soon as she was astride the horse as he snuffled and moved under her and she felt complete in a way nothing else could provide.

The rest of the party filled the courtyard: guards and friends; Selyse and the female servants in a wheelhouse and the carts full of possessions and provisions.

‘I have only one request, Your Grace!’ Her husband called out to her from his own magnificent white Sand Steed, before she could dash off. ‘Ride as hard as you will, leave us all behind in your wake, except for Arthur. Please.’

The message was clear, and she loved him dearly for giving her a freedom most husbands would scorn. It was no hardship to agree to those terms.

‘If the Sword of the Morning can keep up,’ she shot back. She would not make it _easy_.

‘I daresay I will manage,’ Arthur replied dryly, Dawn strapped to his back and his white cloak billowing behind him.

‘I’ll see you at the Kingsroad,’ she joked and blew Rhaegar a cheeky kiss.

She spurred Vhagar on and then, they were off. The horse needed a little time to warm up but soon Duskendale was behind them and they could take the open land as their own. Hooves beat into the ground - it had been raining recently and the going was soft - and her heart beat in time with the horse. Her braid came apart and her hair whipped in the wind. Sweat rose on horse and rider as they stormed across the green fields of the Crown lands.

Then eventually, she remembered Ser Arthur. She brought Vhagar to a slower pace and they stopped under the thick canopy of a tree near the road just as rain began to fall again.

He was not so _very_ far behind, but where she was merely brightened by the exercise, he looked uncharacteristically exhausted.

‘Seven hells!’ he huffed as he almost fell from the horse and winced as his still-injured leg hit the ground with some force. ‘They weren’t joking when they said you were the finest rider in the North!’

‘Which “they”?’ she asked as she helped him to his feet.

‘Your brothers.’ He shrugged her away, embarrassed at needing assistance.

‘Brandon likes to say so because then the fact of my beating him in so many races is less embarrassing.’ She grinned and took to rubbing Vhagar down. The horse nickered at her. ‘Yes my darling, it’s been too long.’

‘We should wait here for the rest of the party.’

‘If we must. How far to the Kingsroad?’

‘A couple of days. Less if we ride at Lyanna-speed.’

‘Nobody can, or at least nobody but me.’

‘You should’ve been a knight, Your Grace.’

‘I would have, but I was born with the wrong parts. Apparently.’

‘My sister feels similarly. She has refused to let her sex get in the way of doing what she wishes.’

‘I like your sister.’

‘So does your brother, I hear.’

‘Which one? Ned?’

‘Brandon.’

Lyanna shut her eyes a moment. So, she hadn’t imagined it during the wedding, after all. His occasional letters were starting to take on a different meaning. ‘Oh gods, Arthur. I’m sorry.’

‘Is he so bad?’

‘He is not at all _bad!_ He is not… constant, is all. He is an excellent brother.’

‘He is to marry Lady Catelyn Tully.’

‘Yes.’ She couldn’t decipher Arthur’s expression, but suspected it was not inspired by friendly feelings.

‘He will be joining us on the journey to Harrenhal, you know.’

Lyanna frowned. ‘But he’s been at Riverrun hasn’t he? That doesn’t make sense!’

‘All I know is that Rhaegar received a raven before we left Dragonstone. I believe he may have been in King’s Landing, or further south-’

‘I fail to understand him sometimes,’ Lyanna snapped. ‘Father says we both have the wolf’s blood in us but Brandon- I could wring his neck sometimes! How can he behave so?’

‘I do not know, but… when men are presented with a future they do not want, they often try to run from it.’

‘He knows better-’

‘Knowing is not feeling.’

‘I suppose… have you a water skin? I’m parched.’

‘I’m not surprised, the way you ride.’

‘That was nothing. I used to ride through the Wolfswood all day. Once I went too far and ended up sleeping in a tree overnight.’

‘Why up a tree?’

‘So nobody could attack me.’ It was obvious to her, at least. Men didn’t have to think about such things, she supposed.

Arthur looked impressed. ‘Your father was right about the wolf blood.’

She helped him sit down under the tree, the better to rest his leg, then sank down to join him. They sat together under the tree in companionable silence until Rhaegar and the rest of the party caught up to them.

Lyanna tried to pretend that she wasn’t staring at the silver prince at the head of the band, but Arthur’s snorted chuckle proved she hadn’t done a particularly stellar job of it.

Rhaegar was a good horseman - he was good at anything he attempted! - but he was not fond of the activity the way Lyanna was. He could ride, he said, for days and days, but did not get the same thrill from hard and fast riding. She admired him as he came close, his black light armour shining in the midday sun, his seat perfect. He dismounted neatly and approached briskly, his boots crunching against the loose stones on the road.

‘Arthur, you’re needed,’ he said, words clipped and curt. ‘Something about the escort.’

Arthur’s brow furrowed for a minuscule moment before he obeyed his prince without question, and he refused Lyanna’s offer of assistance in standing up. Lyanna wondered at the cause of Rhaegar’s less-than-friendly attitude towards the man he considered a brother.

‘Did you enjoy the ride?’ he asked, holding a hand out to help her to her feet.

‘It was wonderful! Thank you!’ She kissed him, but he did not respond as expected. ‘Apologies, Your Grace. I forget myself.’

Rhaegar did not respond, but she looked around and realised they were still essentially alone. What was wrong with him? After a moment, she considered the picture she and Arthur must have painted for him, huddled under the tree together with a water skin, laughing and joking even after the rain had stopped again.

‘Are you jealous, husband?’

A narrowing of the eyes was all the answer he provided and it was all she needed.

‘Well,’ she said after a particularly long silence. ‘I don’t know who should be insulted more, your wife or your best friend. I rather think both of us would face wildfire before even _thinking_ of hurting you so!’

They were soon joined by the rest of their party and no more could be said. Jon Connington saw Rhaegar’s sullen face and sent a vicious scowl at the Princess. Selyse looked like she wanted to speak, but did not dare.

A light lunch was served, but as Lyanna bit into the Duskendale herrings, her stomach rebelled and it was all she could do to not vomit. Such was not becoming of a princess. She pushed her plate away.

‘I have not ridden for so long,’ she said. ‘My insides are all churned up.’

‘Shall we make camp here?’ Rhaegar’s concern overrode his temper.

‘No, no. I shall just be more considered on the next leg of the journey.’

She was incredibly well behaved as they continued on. She trotted alongside Rhaegar, no matter how Vhagar wanted to break into a run, and caught him up in conversations of purposeful inanity.

‘Gods, wife!’ She finally broke him. ‘Would you at least pause for a breath?’

She laughed and after a moment, his courtly prince mask cracked to allow a smile.

‘Am I forgiven for doing nothing wrong?’ she asked, voice dripping with sweetness.

He sighed and rubbed his eyebrows like a headache was forming. ‘Am I forgiven for being a jealous idiot?’

‘Perhaps later.’

The look she got back was full of fire and she smiled back sweetly, as if she did not see the dragon raging behind the amethyst of his eyes.

 

*

 

They joined the King and his entourage on the Kingsroad a little north of the village of Brindlewood.

The King was as he had ever been, but away from the protection and isolation inside the Red Keep he appeared even madder. He surrounded himself with the five Kingsguard he had left after gifting Arthur Dayne to Rhaegar, and various sworn men stood guard alongside them, appearing all the more amateur by the comparison.

They ate together on the first evening of their reunion. Everything the King ate was first tasted by his fool, and globs of what he _did_ eat were caught in his long, matted white beard as his hands shook and his long nails caught his skin, leaving red welts and scratches.

‘And you, my good-daughter?’ Aerys waited until the meal was nearly over before even acknowledging her. ‘Are you grateful for our benevolence in choosing a husband for you?’

‘Beyond measure, Your Grace. I could not have asked for a better husband than your son, and I will be grateful for your wisdom forever.’

The words were designed to flatter, yet it was no lie.

‘You will give us a dragon soon,’ he said. It was a command, not a question.

‘I will,’ she promised. ‘As soon as I can.’

Seven hells, it was going to be a long, long journey.

 

*

 

Rhaegar VIII

Rhaegar Targaryen hated everything about Duskendale. When he told his wife that he would have seen it razed, he was not lying or exaggerating. In the years since his father’s capture there, he had blamed it for all the ills that befell his family and by extension, the realm.

It was not quite fair. The castle and town had done little wrong; the perpetrators of the king’s abduction were brought to account; The King was not killed.

Perhaps it would have been better if he had been. He was already a cruel husband and a bad king, but Duskendale had destroyed the last shreds of Aerys’ capacity for kindness and rational thought.

Rhaegar would have seen it razed as a symbol of Targaryen power and fury, but he had not been in a position then to do much at all. His thoughts were dark as he tried and failed to sleep in the Dun Fort and they remained dark as he watched his wife mount her horse and sprint away in a clatter of hoof beats and churned up mud and dirt.

Would that he could ride with her, but he could not. He was not a natural rider and any desire to ride at speed had been tutored out of him as a boy. Princes did not ride recklessly, lest they fall and break their necks! Princes did not misbehave! Princes did not speak out of turn! Princes did not read too much! Princes did not hide away in their rooms! Princes did not cry! Princes did not laugh too loudly! Princes did not hide behind their mother’s skirts! Princes did _not_ …

He had tried to ride hard at times but was ever left with a guilty sickness in his stomach and mind. Perhaps that was why his first glimpse of Lyanna had left him so breathless.

Rhaegar was glad to give her the chance to ride as she wanted to, but wished he could be there to see the way her face lit up with joy as she rode. It was something important to her that he could not be part of, and he found himself hating that.

By the time he caught up with Lyanna and Arthur, his thoughts were so churned and disaffected that the sight of the two sitting perfectly innocently under a tree boiled his blood. Even as the words issued from his own mouth, his rational self scolded him.

And all that before even considering that the King would be attended Harrenhal. The bloody Spider must have put the idea into his head. Aerys did not attend tourneys, he did not leave the safety of the Red Keep. What had Varys said to get the King away from the Iron Throne?

Still… Rhaella would have some respite. Even if the king’s presence put well-laid plans in jeopardy, the little boy in Rhaegar was glad for his mother’s sake, if nothing else… was that enough?

When they stopped to make camp, he apologised to Arthur as well as he could manage - princes did not apologise! - and his friend’s infuriating smirk was the worst kind of penance to endure. Arthur apparently understood Rhaegar better than Rhaegar did, and clapped him on the back with no more than a jovial ‘So, Rhaegar Targaryen is a man under all that black after all.’

Lyanna was similarly forgiving, but he felt it was not something that could be repeated. She was quick to anger and quick to forgive but he knew lurking underneath that apparent fire was a core of iron and ice that would not yield, bend or defrost if provoked.

If he were a different kind of man, he would tell her the reasons for his foul mood, but princes do not admit weakness.

As they settled down to sleep, Lyanna murmured into the darkness, voice close to his ear: ‘Whatever is going on inside your head, you should just tell me.’

‘It is nothing.’

‘Nothing nearly had you call out your best friend for the crime of sitting under a tree. I shan’t beg or demand you tell me what troubles you, but you can tell me. I’m your wife, as you may recall.’

‘I do recall.’

‘So?’

He reached across the small temporary bed to pull her close. It creaked so loudly that he felt like a bucket of cold water had been tipped over him. He hugged her close. ‘I am just stupid from time to time.’

‘I know what stupid looks like. I also know what dreadfully sad and troubled looks like. Tell me, don’t tell me, but don’t lie to me.’

‘Yes, wife. Good night.’ He could not confide now, in a small creaking bed in a small tent in the middle of nowhere.

‘Good night.’ Gods, she sounded so disappointed.

For a second night, he barely slept. It was not promising: to deal with his father he would need to have his wits at their sharpest.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a bit of something before Harrenhal...
> 
> Proposed new story title: Dragon Roar, Wolf Howl, or something along those lines...


	19. To Harrenhal

Benjen I

Gods, he was _so_ bored! Winterfell without Lyanna was quiet, routine and dull. Even Father seemed preoccupied beyond his normal duties as Lord of Winterfell. Brandon had been home, but he hardly did anything fun anymore. He spent most of his time drinking with Martyn Cassel or writing long letters to someone - he presumed Catelyn Tully. Then, he rode away for pastures Southron a few weeks earlier and home became even duller.

Still, at least he had the lion’s share of Ser Rodrik’s attention in the training yard and was improving as a result.

‘Ben, I have good news for you.’ Father’s tight smile was fond if one knew what to look for. ‘There is to be a Tourney! Lord Whent is hosting it at Harrenhal.’

‘May I go? Please-’

‘Would I be so cruel as to raise it with you otherwise? We will travel down with Brandon once Ned returns home.’

‘Ned is coming home? Doesn’t he want to go?’

Lord Rickard frowned. ‘There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, but don’t worry - he said he would rather not attend. He and Robert are not getting along, I suspect.’

Benjen hardly heard the rest of his father’s conversation. A _tourney_! Perhaps he could get into the Lists as-’

‘You will _not_ take part, my boy. Not this time.’

Benjen scowled, mostly at being so transparent to his father, who leaned over the table and ruffled his hair like he was still a child. He was not a child!

Preparations were made and Ned arrived from the Eyrie in short order, which allowed him some time with his father and brothers before they departed. He was as much the same as ever: quiet, thoughtful and kind.

‘The Tourney is all anyone is talking about from the Eyrie to here,’ he told Father as they gathered for tea in the Lord’s Solar. ‘The size of the prize purse alone-’

‘Too much?’

‘Far too much, especially compared to the last great tourney. Some say Lord Whent has grown arrogant since taken Harrenhal.’

‘And what do others say?’

‘They wonder who is really putting up the coin.’

‘Rumours?’

‘Always.’

‘Well?’

Ned cleared his throat. ‘The Prince is an obvious candidate. Too obvious, I would say. Others say the King himself, to ferret out talk of opposition. There will not be another gathering of the lords like it until… well, until such time as the King dies… which I hope he does not, of course.’

‘Of course.’

It was nice to spend time with Ned again, not least because that brother treated him less like a child than anyone else, but he seemed more withdrawn than usual.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing Ben. Just… nothing.’

‘A girl?’

‘Why would you think that?’

‘Because that’s usually why men get sad.’

‘I’m not sad, brother.’

‘Oh. You look sad.’

‘I don’t mean to. I just have that sort of face. Do not worry for me, Ben.’

‘If you’re sure.’

‘Aye.’ Ned flashed a toothy smile at him, and Benjen was a little reassured.

Benjen and Lord Stark rode away from Winterfell with a dozen men: enough for protection, not too many to be overpowering at the tourney. With them they took carts and caravans full of all the things they needed for such an event: tents and furniture, armour and other clothes; provisions and all manner of _stuff_. Father had even had various plants brought from the glass gardens, but Benjen had no idea how he was going to keep them alive on the journey.

Really, they were taking a whole household with them, which seemed silly for one little tourney, but Father seemed to think it was all necessary. Ben hardly understood the small nonsense sometimes.

At the Neck, they were joined by Howland Reed, who Father was very fond of. He was brilliant storyteller and Ben grew quickly fond of the tales of the Old Ways that he told each night at the campfire.

Yet, as they grew closer to Harrenhal, Howland peeled away from their party.

‘You aren’t coming?’ Benjen was confused: who would miss out on such a Tourney as this?

‘I had not planned to,’ Howland said. ‘I am going to the Isle of Faces.’

‘Why? Never mind, you should come to the Tourney on your way home! You can camp with us!’

‘Ben, let Lord Reed alone,’ Father’s stern voice cut across his excitement. ‘You are always welcome with us, Howland, if you choose to come along. May the Isle bring you what you hope for.’

Howland bowed deeply to his friend and lord. ‘Thank you, Lord Stark.’

The great ruins of Harrenhal were already busy when the Starks arrived, having had one of the longest journeys. The royal party, he was told, was still a few days away.

‘The King himself is coming!’ a wide-eyed squire reported.

Lord Stark’s frosty visage did not crack. ‘It is unlike the King to leave court.’

‘Yet he is on his way, with Prince Rhaegar and Princess Lyanna.’

Benjen’s heart skipped to hear a mention of his sister, let alone bearing the title “princess”. Even Father seemed amused.

They set up camp just outside the walls - Father did not like to remain within the cursed curtain, with its blackened broken stones and the melancholy air that no amount of fine Whent decor could mask.

He quickly fell in with some squires - Jory Cassel of Winterfell of course, and Brynden Tully’s Riverrun boys.

Brandon arrived alone a day ahead of the King and made straight for Father’s tent, where they spoke for hours.

On the third morning of their stay, the Royal caravan was spotted.

 

*

 

Lyanna IX

 

The journey would have been perfectly lovely if Lyanna had not been with the King. His wheelhouse was slow and unwieldy, and contained the man himself. He muttered almost constantly about rebellion and treason. He was not convinced that Whent had arranged the Tourney alone, and so surmised it held greater significance than praise of his daughter.

Furthermore, he took Lyanna as unspoken hostage in the wheelhouse, having decided that she was to act like a lady for the time being. Mercifully, he slept a great deal of the time, no doubt assisted by the draughts he consumed.

That long in a wheelhouse would have driven her to nausea and distraction under the best of circumstances, but to be penned in with Aerys and Varys was too bloody much. Selyse was present but she could not bring herself to speak in the King’s presence even when he slept, so stayed petrified and silent.

If the King spoke to Lyanna, it was to hiss venom about his fickle and untrustworthy son or to criticise her for not yet getting with child. After trying to defend herself in the Red Keep, she now kept herself to “Yes, Your Grace”, “you are quite right, Your Grace” or variations thereof. He was a constant vexation to her spirit but if she gave him nothing to respond to, he could do little.

Everything with King Aerys was about limiting the damage he could do and she understood Rhaegar’s reticence better now.

At night, she clung to her own dragon and silently prayed that he would not be touched by the madness, nor that her eventual children would lose the mythic coin toss.

Two days away from Harrenhal, they met up with Brandon, fresh from wherever he’d been. The King was holding informal court within the makeshift camp, and curious smallfolk milled around, eager for a glimpse of the Mad King or more likely, the beautiful Silver Prince.

‘You are betrothed to Lord Tully’s eldest daughter?’ the King asked Brandon when the Stark heir was presented, as if he had never heard of this before. ‘This cannot be, for we decreed that no Great House would wed itself to another.’

‘You gave your blessing, Your Grace,’ Brandon returned.

Lyanna winced as Aerys’ eyes narrowed to snakelike slits and the King’s hands twisted and long nails clicked.

‘It shall not be!’ he decreed. ‘We will unmake this! Lord Varys, you will write to Lord Hoster on our behalf.’

‘As you will it, Your Grace.’

‘There, Brandon Stark! We can make and unmake the world as we desire it. We are your King!’

Brandon bowed smoothly, unflustered at having his life instantly reordered. ‘Your Grace, your munificence is unbounded.’

His deference cooled the King’s temper and he said no more on it.

‘If Your Grace will allow it, I would ride ahead and give my father your decree.’

The King’s eyes now glinted with dark glee enough to make Lyanna repress a shiver. ‘Yes, I will allow. Give Lord Stark our fondest regards.’

Oh, the menace in those crackling words. The King had no love for Starks, except perhaps her… and even then only as a means to an end that she had yet to fulfil.

It was a long, long journey, and she gazed longingly at Vhagar and Rhaegar both every time she climbed into that bloody wheelhouse.

They were almost the last to arrive at Harrenhal, and the great ruin took her breath away. Hundreds of brightly coloured tents had been pitched outside the tall curtain walls, which only served to sharpen how ruined and burnt the castle was.

Eager crowds cheered their arrival, and Lord Whent and his family greeted them at the gates of Harrenhal. The lord was clearly unnerved by the King’s royal presence.

‘Harrenhal is at your disposal, Your Grace.’ Lord Walter was almost bent over double in his bow as King Aerys remained within the wheelhouse. ‘The finest rooms have been made available to you.’

‘We thank you, Lord Whent,’ the King wheezed. ‘We are pleased to come to the place where our great ancestor asserted the supremacy of our House.’

Apparently the King decided that it was wholly suitable for him to take rooms in the same tower where Aegon the Conqueror and Balerion had roasted Harren Hoare alive. His son had other ideas and noted that his tents had already been erected. The space chosen was close to the relative beauty of the godswood and as far from the ruined towers as possible.

‘My lord,’ he said to Lord Whent, ‘You have enough concerns this week to add my household to them. We will be very comfortable in our tents as planned.’

Lyanna was then delighted to be reunited with her father and Benjen, and had to fight her instincts in order to remain refined and dignified in public.

‘Come and visit with me,’ she said. ‘I am eager to see where I will be living this week.’

The Prince of Dragonstone’s tent was a miniature, temporary version of the Prince’s apartments in the Red Keep, and she saw Lord Stark frown at the abundance of Targaryen dragons on every possible surface. He averted his gaze away from the bed, which loomed large and ominous against the crimson backdrop of the tent wall. Jessa had already started to unpack her mistress’ clothes and several dresses were laid out on the bed, which at least softened the awkwardness of the moment.

‘You look well,’ her father ventured cautiously as he touched his hand to the silk of an upholstered chair.

‘I am well,’ Lyanna was happy to respond honestly. I can have nothing but praise for my husband.’

‘I am glad. I had not wanted-’ Lord Stark could not meet her gaze.

‘It is all for the best, truly,’ she interrupted and reached out to tip her father’s face up to look at him. ‘When you speak with Prince Rhaegar, you will understand.’

Still talking in obfuscation, they discussed life at court and Dragonstone.

‘I expect we will share good news soon,’ she said. She blushed to speak of such things with her father and younger brother. ‘It just hasn’t…’

Rickard Stark coughed and looked at his boots. ‘I pray the same…’

‘All will be well.’

They excused themselves then to let her to her rest. The Tourney itself started the following day but there was an opening ceremony that afternoon during which everyone would be presented to the King, and she needed to be at her best.

Before she could slide under the covers and discover how comfortable the bed was, her husband arrived.

‘You are here,’ Rhaegar was surprised to see her there. ‘I thought you would be with your father.’

‘He just left, didn’t you see him? I was tired.’

‘You are unwell?’ The familiar furrow in his brow appeared.

‘Just the travelling. Wheelhouses and I disagree with each other eternally. The King does not need you presently?’

‘He is resting comfortably within the Kingspyre Tower.’ Relief was clear upon her husband’s perfect face.

‘Then we should do the same. All eyes will be on you later.’

‘On you, I should say. Beautiful girl.’

‘Of the two of us, I am not the beautiful one.’ She helped him unhook his armour. ‘Now, sleep.’

 

*

 

They met formally with the Starks before the opening ceremony at what Lyanna dubbed “Winterfell-by-Harrenhal”. They were a merry party: Martyn Cassel spoke of Jory with glowing pride; Benjen wanted nothing more than to grill Rhaegar about dragons; Brandon was far brighter in his mood than she had last seen him.

For his part, the Silver Prince was at his finest. His conversation encompassed all present; he had an exhaustive knowledge on almost any topic and wry humour that suited the Northerners very well.

So well-liked was he that, as the Targaryens left, Lord Stark embraced his good-son. Lyanna watched open-mouthed and felt almost woozy with relief, joy and affection for both, followed by the icy horror of contemplating the alternative.

Rhaegar offered his arm to her. ‘Well wife, let us go to the tourney ground. The people are waiting.’

As he tucked her arm close in with his, she felt a frisson of excitement for the Tourney. It had all the hallmarks of a great event: the bards would sing of this for years to come.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any more ideas for a new, less sucktacular title? I am currently thinking of "Dragon Roar, Wolf Howl" but can hardly tell if it's better or not!
> 
> As always, concrit and comments welcome!


	20. A Snowy Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because Aunt Lyanna can't tell such an epic tale all in one go...

Arya II

 

Arya yawned loudly, breaking the comfortable and natural silence created by the pause in Aunt Lyanna’s story. ‘When do we get to sword fighting? You said there’d be sword fighting!’

The fire crackled quietly and the candles burned low, lending Sansa’s room a dark, cosy atmosphere quite suited to the storytelling.

Sansa sniffed delicately at her, leaving Arya in no doubt that her sister held her firmly in contempt: ‘Aunt Lyanna said nothing of the sort! Why are you so uncouth? Honestly, anyone would think you had never visited King’s Landing at all!’

Arya rolled her eyes. Her sister’s bitter jealousy at not remaining in King’s Landing last year after the Starks’ visit, had not abated - not least because _Arya_ of all people was allowed to stay longer. It was an injustice Sansa would not forget, so she could not forgive.

‘There will be swords and fighting very soon,’ Aunt Lyanna interrupted softly, before an argument could flare up between the girls. ‘Are you not yet tired? We should resume our story tomorrow night.’

The Stark sisters were now united in their objections, which Arya realised after a moment had been Aunt Lyanna’s intention all along.

‘No, I think it is long past time for bed. You may be young and energetic, but I am old and need my rest.’

‘You aren’t old, Aunt!’ Sansa protested firmly, shrill voice demanding she be agreed with. ‘You are the loveliest lady in all the Seven Kingdoms!’

Aunt Lyanna’s gaze slid to the orange and red embers of the fire and for a moment Arya thought her aunt might not even have heard. She responded after a moment, so must have heard: ‘It is striking how beautiful I became when I was given a crown. It must be powerful magic indeed.’

Sansa did not like to be told she was being silly, even as gently as Aunt Lyanna did it. Arya fought the urge to reach over and smack Sansa in the face, and was proud that she succeeded and Sansa’s milky skin was unmarked.

Aunt Lyanna stood up, wincing slightly as she put her weight onto her knee. She kissed the crown of Sansa’s red head. ‘I hope you both have lovely dreams.’

‘Aunt Lyanna?’ Arya thought of something else as Aunt Lyanna kissed her too. ‘Do you think I might be allowed to go on the trip to the Wolfswood tomorrow?’

‘I do not know, sweet girl. If you ask your father nicely, he may say yes.’

‘He never says yes.’ Arya sulked. ‘I wanted to go with them when they found the wolves but I wasn’t allowed!’

‘Father was called out to administer justice!’ Sansa yelped. ‘That is no place for a lady!’

‘Says?’

‘Says everyone!’

Aunt Lyanna moved to the door swiftly, with purpose. ‘Good _night_ , girls. I will tell you more of the story tomorrow… if you can rub along together long enough to listen. Sleep well.’

‘After we go to the Wolfswood?’

‘Good night, Arya.’

 

*

 

The next morning, Arya was up before almost anyone else. She scurried down to the kitchens, where she earned her nickname Underfoot until the cook Marya rapped her across the knuckles with her wooden spoon and sent her upstairs.

King Rhaegar was one of the few early risers - she was not surprised to find him in the Great Hall. Some people thought he’d be all kingly about things and have food brought to his rooms, but there he was every morning. He was usually reading papers or a dusty old book, which seemed quite typical for someone who spent longer in the Winterfell library than anyone, including Maester Luwin. Arya’s favourite thing about her uncle was that although he was always perfect attired, he also always had ink stains on his long fingers.

Her father sat in his usual place at the head of the table, but he and the King were not talking. Arya thought it was because neither of them wanted to say much, rather than them disliking each other.

It was the perfect time to apply to her father for permission to join the riding party.

She had a plate of eggs balanced in one hand and a mug of hot milk in the other but her water dancing lessons in King’s Landing left her in little danger of spilling anything. She grinned at Lord Stark and moved to sit in Robb’s chair, as she sometimes did in informal moments, when it was just father and daughter. And of course, when Robb was not there to turf her out.

‘Good morning, Your Grace!’ She only just remembered to greet her uncle - _the King! -_ first. ‘Good morning, Father.’

Ned barely looked up from his breakfast. ‘You can’t go, Arya. I’m sorry.’

‘But- how did you-‘

His soft grey gaze settled on her now, and a wry little smile played on his lips. Arya never understood why people thought he didn’t smile much, because he often smiled at her.

‘I have known you all your life, Arya. You are only ever polite when you want something, you only ever smile prettily at me like that when you want something and as always, your eyes give you away.’

A few seats away, Uncle Rhaegar chuckled quietly. In King’s Landing, he had told her that her eyes were just like Aunt Lyanna’s, and he found it difficult to say no to her too. He had been better at it than Father for the most part, but only because he was a king and they were better at getting their own way than anyone.

‘I didn’t even get to _ask_!’ Arya whined, though mostly for comic effect. ‘You don’t know what I was going to ask.’

‘You were going to ask to accompany us on the ride today. I’m sorry, but you cannot.’

‘I wasn’t going to ask that!’ she lied boldly, and knew from the patient smile she received in return and her uncle’s raised eyebrow, that they did not believe her for a moment. ‘I was going to ask…’

‘Yes?’ Ned asked, patiently waiting for her to devise a convincing alternative. ‘Take your time, my girl.’

‘I was going to ask if I could spend the day with Septa Mordane and Sansa doing needlework!’ Arya crowed, triumphant and smug. ‘But you just said I can’t, so I mustn’t because I would _never_ disobey you.’

That earned a sharp laugh from Ned and a slightly impressed, affectionate one from her uncle, whose purple eyes crinkled at her. People who didn’t know him thought he was aloof, but Arya knew better.

‘Eat up before it gets cold,’ Father said. He did not deny or agree, which meant there was still a chance. Arya tucked into her food and tried to think of some more reasons to support her argument.

Aunt Lyanna arrived a few minutes later. Arya watched the way her uncle’s gaze followed her all the way into the room, and that he seemed just a little bit happier now that she was here. Aunt Lyanna slid into the seat next to Uncle Rhaegar and nudged his shoulder with hers as she did.

‘Good morning, my King.’

‘Good morning, my Queen.’

Arya wanted to giggle, but didn’t. Sansa didn’t know _anything_. Anyway, she had more pressing matters to attend to.

‘Aunt Lyanna-‘

‘You have to ask your father.’

That just earned Arya more laughter, this time from _three_ grown-ups. It wasn’t _fair_.

 

*

 

Arya perched herself on a barrel near the Hunter’s Gate so that her father and uncle and Jory and Jon and Aegon and Ser Rodrik and Robb and Theon could see how very displeased she was not to be going with them. She did not get any sympathy from them and nobody made a last minute invitation to her, as she had wished. Jon flashed a smile and Theon winked, but otherwise nobody really cared except to say “good morning” or “see you later, Arya”.

In fact, Grey Wind paid her more attention than any of the humans, as he at least looked apologetic – as much as any direwolf ever could.

And then, she was bored. Winterfell was so _boring_ most of the time when she wasn’t allowed to do boy things.

With that thought in mind, Arya bounded to the inner ward in hopes of joining Bran at his lessons. There she also found her own wolf, looking as bored as she felt.

‘Nymeria, to me!’ she called.

The direwolf loped over and nuzzled Arya. She responded in kind.

‘They went off without us,’ she mumbled. ‘What shall we do?’

As if conjured by a witch, Septa Mordane appeared at the door to the Library Tower. ‘Arya, it is time for your lessons!’

The next several hours were spent with the Septa, Bran and Duncan, studying history and mathematics, which was at least not as bad as needlework. She attended to her lessons dutifully enough, but Arya was relieved indeed when Aunt Lyanna entered the library.

‘May I steal these lovely children away for a while, Septa?’

Septa Mordane was at first startled at being addressed by the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, but not awed enough to agree straight away. ‘We are not quite finished, Your Grace.’

Aunt Lyanna took this to mean she should take a seat beside Duncan and join in. ‘What are we learning today?’ She ruffled Duncan’s hair and he nuzzled into her side affectionately, like a little wolf cub. This wolf cub had white hair and dark purple eyes, but Arya knew he was part of the pack.

The Septa’s shoulders were hunched and her face was screwed up into itself like she’d accidentally eaten a lemon. ‘Presently, the Pact of Ice and Fire, Your Grace.’

‘Ah,’ Aunt Lyanna leaned back in her chair. ‘But which one?’

‘The first, Your Grace.’

‘Much more interesting than the second.’ She winked at Bran and Arya, neither of whom had any interest now in learning anything from a book, though Duncan didn’t dare misbehave in front of his mother. ‘Prince Jacaerys and his dragon. Pray, continue.’

Septa Mordane cleared her throat hoping to divert attention back where it should be.

 

*

 

Just as dark grey clouds began to spit light rain upon Winterfell, the riding party returned with a freshly-slain stag, which was gratefully received by Marya and her kitchen maids.

The older boys were all full of bravado and boasts and did not want the adventures of the day to end, so they gathered in the training yard for an impromptu archery tournament. Bran and Duncan were invited to join then, but not Arya, so she leaned against the stable porch and watched from a distance, forced by circumstance into sulking. It wasn’t _her_ fault!

With the royal family there, her brothers didn’t dare invite her to join. They weren’t to know that in King’s Landing she’d had her own special water dancing master, Ser Willem had taught her a little of the Kingsguard Way, and _Uncle Rhaegar_ had taught her yet more with a wooden training sword many mornings. Even Aunt Lyanna had taught her some tricks!

Mother and Aunt Lyanna watched their sons from the cover of the upper balcony. Rickon cuddled with Mother, and after a short time they were joined by Sansa and her crowd of friends. None of those stupid girls liked Arya, so she didn’t join them.

Bran was doing well enough with his archery against Duncan, and the older boys were all quite well matched. Nobody was a match for Jon, who some people whispered would fulfil a great prophecy one day.

She didn’t care about prophecies, but he was definitely her favourite cousin.

‘Do you wish you were with them?’

She jumped nearly out of her skin. Uncle Rhaegar had sneaked up on her! He had changed out of his cumbersome hunting armour into black training garb, quite plain but still impressive and made from very fine material, and his long black cloak swooshed down his tall figure to the ground. He always looked awe-inspiring, somehow. If she hadn’t spent so much time with her royal relations, she might be nervous like Sansa and the others here.

‘Yes.’

‘Ask to join them.’

‘They won’t want me. I’m just a stupid girl.’

‘I agree that you are a girl, but you aren’t stupid. Have you been practising since you returned North?’

‘Yes, I have, I promise! I do everything Syrio and Ser Willem taught me, nearly every day and I have a practice sword and-’

‘Breathe, Arya, breathe,’ he teased, and held a hand out to her. ‘Come on.’

Uncle Rhaegar took her into the yard, where everyone stopped for him. He shed his cloak and jerkin, and took Jon’s practice sword.

‘I challenge _Ser_ Arya,’ he announced loudly, to gasps of surprise from nearly all quarters.

Her brothers had not really believed some of her tales from the Red Keep and it was deeply satisfying for Arya to see their faces now. Up on the balcony Mother scowled fiercely and gripped the rail tightly, but Aunt Lyanna whispered something to her which stopped her intervening.

Aegon handed her his wooden sword and in a moment _Arya_ was sparring with _the King_!

‘You are getting better, Little Wolf.’ Uncle Rhaegar was pleased with her. ‘One day you will be a fierce warrior indeed.’

She knew that her uncle wasn’t really trying to beat her, but he didn’t make it easy either, like Father tended to do when she could persuade him to spar.

‘Come on Arya!’ Aegon called. ‘You can do better than that.’

Egg liked to tease her, while Jon was always helpful. Even now he was making motions behind his father to remind her of better moves.

She fell down once or twice, but she was young and fast compared to her uncle, who was not getting any younger.

‘Do you yield?’ he asked after her second stumble.

‘No!’

He let her get another good contact with his sword then stood down. ‘Well I yield. I’m too old for this.’

She knew it wasn’t true of course. The King was one of the best warriors in all the Seven Kingdoms, but she liked that he let her nearly-win anyway. She was hot and sweaty and very nearly out of breath, but it was the very best feeling she knew.

Her cousins approached now: Egg ruffled her already messy hair. ‘Well done, little Wolf. You’ll spar with me, tomorrow?’

Duncan handed her a mug of warm tea and took her sword like he was her squire.

She narrowed her gaze at Aegon: ‘If you promise to fight fair.’

Aegon had informally squired for the Kingsguard’s Ser Jaime Lannister, and everyone knew that Ser Jaime didn’t always fight fair. Sometimes Egg was the same. He liked to win most of all and didn’t always mind how he did.

Light snow began to fall and Lady Catelyn ushered everyone inside.

‘I’m very proud of you Arya,’ Aunt Lyanna said. ‘You have improved greatly since I saw you last.’

‘I want to be just like you!’

‘Not _just_ like me I hope?’

‘Brave and fierce, like Nymeria! Or Visenya! Or Brave Dan-’

‘Brave Dany Flint. Yes indeed.’ Aunt Lyanna laughed heartily with her, and tickled her sides briefly, until Arya dodged away.

‘Will you tell us more stories later?’

Aunt Lyanna fixed her with a fierce grey glare very much like her own: ‘Only if you promise to be sweet to Sansa.’

‘Fine.’

‘Better than _fine_ , Arya. She’s your sister.’

‘But she’s-’ She stopped. Aunt Lyanna didn’t like her to be mean about Sansa, no matter how mean Sansa still was to her. ‘All right then.’

‘Arya, come on!’ Duncan yelled. ‘We’re going to play cyvasse in Jon’s room!’

 

*

 

An everyday dinner when the King and Queen were present was less grand than a full feast, but not by much. The deer caught earlier had been freshly prepared and the meal was a rich venison stew that kept the chill air at bay. The light snow earlier had become a thick snowstorm by nightfall.

Everyone was talking about _Ser_ Arya’s duel against the King, which made her red with embarrassment, but only because everyone was looking at her. Uncle Rhaegar was the very best sort of uncle. Uncle Benjen was very nice too, but it wasn’t the same, and he was far away from Winterfell anyway.

That night, Aunt Lyanna, Arya and Sansa settled down in Arya’s room, with Lady and Nymeria curled up together by the fire, the two huge wolves taking up most of the room. The three Stark-born girls snuggled in the bed together under the thick covers, nieces on either side of the aunt.

‘Where were we?’ asked Aunt Lyanna.

‘Harrenhal!’ Arya called, far louder than necessary and too near Aunt Lyanna’s ear.

‘Just before the Tourney at Harrenhal,’ Sansa clarified. ‘Did you meet the Knight of the Laughing Tree?’

‘Someone said the Knight of the Laughing Tree was a ghost.’

‘No, he was very real.’

Arya had a version of the tale already: ‘I heard in King’s Landing that the Knight of the Laughing Tree was your paramour and wanted to joust for your favour!’

Aunt Lyanna laughed heartily, although she was not really pleased. ‘My paramour? How ridiculous! I should sooner say that the Knight was the paramour of the King!’

Sansa was rather shocked at the implication, but Arya just wanted to hear the story.

‘The Tourney at Harrenhal was the last times the old King left King’s Landing,’ Aunt Lyanna said, sobering from her good humour in an instant. ‘Nothing was really the same after that.’

‘But what about the Knight of the Laughing Tree?’ Sansa asked.

‘I was getting to that. Patience, lovely girl. Are you both comfortable? Then I’ll begin…’

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the comments so far - they really do make some pretty downer days a lot better.
> 
> Jury is still out on a new title - I'm still leaning towards 'Dragon Roar, Wolf Howl' but any other ideas are appreciated...
> 
> As always, I'd love to know what you think... and if you like it, subscribe/bookmark/keep an eye out for the next chapter - I'm really trying to get them out nice and quickly for all y'all!


	21. The Tourney at Harrenhal

Rhaegar IX

 

The reticent Prince of Dragonstone did not enjoy the opening ceremonies of tourneys in general, and given the size of this great event, he did not expect to like this one. There was too much sitting nodding at people as everyone stared back at him. Still, he was not there to enjoy himself, and nobody present would guess at his thoughts.

With his father beside him raised upon his makeshift throne, on a balcony in a richly decorated but temporary tourney-stand, Rhaegar was on his guard constantly and it was tiring. His high, stiff collar dug into his skin and the tightly cut, starched tunic forced him to sit up as if tied to a pillar.

Lord Walter Whent was a fine host but even he could not make the parade of honoured guests pass any quicker unless it was to become a gallop.

Freshly knighted by Arthur Dayne, Ser Jaime Lannister seemed to be of the same opinion as he was presented to the King, although it was hard to tell with Lannisters whether they were bored, contemptuous, smug, or all three at once.

‘Ser Jaime!’ the King called and pointed a bony finger at the young man.

He was barely older than Lyanna, yet had been a knight since Arthur and he took on the Kingswood Brotherhood. What could the King possibly want with him?

‘Ser Jaime,’ he repeated once the golden boy was knelt at his feet. ‘We are well-acquainted with your chivalry, your bravery and your strength. You will join our Kings guard, in place of our late Kingsguard Ser Harlan Grandison. Ser Gerold, you will induct Ser Jaime now.’

Rhaegar forced his expression into blank neutrality, but in reality his mind was whirling. First the King had come with them to the Tourney and now he was taking Tywin Lannister’s heir out of circulation? What in the name of all gods old, new and otherwise, was going on?

He watched with a whirling mind as Ser Jaime swore his oath. The boy seemed to be pleased as he forsook women and heirs and in all ways dedicated himself to the King. How could such a handsome, winning creature as the young lion possibly be happy to enter the service of such a King as Aerys?

Who benefited? Certainly not Lord Tywin - Rhaegar could feel the man’s piercing stare all the way from King’s Landing. The King had himself a fine young knight - Rhaegar realised Jaime was the youngest ever Kingsguard now - and yet, could he be trusted? Lannisters were notoriously clannish and if the King and Lord Tywin ever clashed, who would Jaime stand with?

Of all the people to poke with a stick, Tywin Lannister was possibly the worst. If only his father wasn’t _here now_ … At least Tywin wasn’t.

His attention returned to the performance taking place. Ser Jaime was playing to the crowd as Ser Gerold placed the white cloak on his shoulders. It had never occurred to him before, but the ceremony was almost identical to that of a wedding ceremony: oaths, cloaks, and a transformed life once it was done.

‘It brings us great comfort to know that you will guard our wife and younger son,’ the King announced. The joy was wiped off Jaime's face. ‘You will leave tomorrow at first light.’

Ser Jaime’s green eyes narrowed but his rational mind took control before he could leap at the King in fatal attack.

‘Prince Rhaegar,’ the King now addressed his son. ‘We are weary and will rest until the feast.’

Rhaegar rose and bowed to his father. ‘As the King commands, Your Grace. May I see you to your room?’

‘You will be our representative here.’ He lowered his voice and grabbed his son’s hand, gripping tightly. ‘There is treason everywhere, my son.’

‘Your subjects love you, Father. Worry not, and rest well.’

‘I shall.’

It was a moment of unexpected warmth between them: Aerys did not often show such vulnerability to his son and it made Rhaegar yearn desperately for a father who was not prone to burning thieves or brutalising his wife.

Still, once the King was gone, the tourney opening improved markedly.

Ser Oswell and his nephew Treyvor Whent completed the opening ceremony with an exhibition joust: the Kingsguard allowed his twelve year old nephew to get a hit on him, but the competitive fellow did not let him do much damage. Probably for the best, he thought.

‘Could you imagine if a green lad like young Whent unhorsed a Kingsguard?’ Lyanna asked softly.

He had almost forgotten she was there, her seat set a little back from those of the king and prince, so quiet she had been. He was not the only one affected by the King’s presence.

‘It would be a show of weakness,’ he murmured back. ‘The King would not be safe.’

Why did this whole show already feel like a missed opportunity? He despised himself for such thoughts against his father, not least the machinations that had led to the tourney taking shape as it had.

Lord Walter loved his fair daughter, but he would not have arranged this tourney on such a grand scale without soft whispers from his brother. From the puffed up pride on him presently, it was probably more accurate to say that Lord Walter had dreamed of it, but would not have presumed without tacit approval from various of his peers.

Lyanna retired then, which suited his plans to speak discreetly to several notable lords, and he would’ve sworn she knew exactly what she was doing.

The ceremony concluded with a final blessing by the Prince, and then the assemblage dispersed until the great feast.

A heavy foreboding settled upon Rhaegar’s shoulders as it so often did. He was better accustomed to dread than contentment, it seemed. He squared those heavy-burdened shoulders and headed towards the encampment of Yohn Joyce. As he did so, he was quietly followed by a number of the lesser lords. Haigh and Blount were rather more obvious than he would like, but he saw falcons and buckles; haystacks and lightning. Foreboding indeed, but not without hope.

 

Lyanna X

Despite her earlier excitement, Lyanna was deathly bored with the parade of notables. Until the melee tomorrow, all the entertainment to be found was in gossip and court politics. Rhaegar was quiet to the point of introversion, no doubt due to the King’s presence. She did not want to add to that burden, so resigned herself to remaining uncharacteristically quiet and demure, simultaneously in the background and on show.

Being on display also meant she had to be suitably attired and had spent far too long while Selyse and her newest lady-in-waiting Denyse Hightower fussed over her hair and dress. At least the boned corset of the dress kept her sat upright and the long, wide sleeves could conceal how her fingers fidgeted. She was not convinced that the black of House Targaryen suited her pale skin or her hair, but she received many pretty compliments as she arrived at the tourney field and as the Lords and Knights paid homage to the royal family.

Rhaegar was not outwardly appreciative - not with the audience around them - but as he escorted her to her place beside him in the royal box, his fingers tickled against her wrist and his lips stayed on her hand a little longer than necessary as he kissed it. The gathered lords, ladies, knights and smallfolk were suitably wooed by this moment of affection, and even the King seemed pleased by her appearance and the response they garnered. Perhaps he had realised that love for Rhaegar was good for him too.

Her good-father’s gaze made her skin crawl like she had been thrown into a bath of maggots, a reflexive response she could not overcome. She had so far found the best policy was unerring and deferential kindness, not least because if he was concentrated on her, he was not thinking how to do harm to anyone else.

She was glad the Queen had remained in King’s Landing and hoped her respite would be enjoyable. Viserys would no doubt flourish with the heavy spectre of his father removed awhile.

Robert Baratheon was likely to be the undoubted star of the melee, being far bigger and stronger than most, with the bearing and training of a Lord Paramount. His gaze as he presented himself to the royal party also made her skin crawl - she could feel he was undressing her in his mind, and she hated that. Her brother’s friend was rumoured to have yet more babes now, and she idly wondered if she should ask Rhaegar to intervene. But how? He was a possessive sort, she had just recently discovered, and no matter how distasteful Baratheon was, he had not yet done anything deserving of dragon fire.

From the furrow in Rhaegar’s brow, he was more than aware of her reaction to his cousin and for once, she would leave the decision in the hands of someone else.

Lord Baratheon was not finished and instead of moving away, turned his attention specifically to her:

‘Your Grace, may I request the honour of your favour for tomorrow’s melee?’ He approached boldly, not even put off by the King or the purple glare of her husband. Bold or arrogant, or both, she wondered.

‘My lord-’

‘The Princess’ favour ever resides with dragons,’ the King croaked. ‘Dear cousin, you may console yourself with our royal love.’

Robert smiled tightly and bowed tightly to his King, though anyone could see that he was displeased. Why he would be interested in a married woman who had once humiliated him so publicly was beyond her, but Lyanna had come to learn that men had odd desires and odder opinions of women.

Her attention wavered again, although she watched the investiture of Jaime Lannister into the Kingsguard with interest: what was _that_ about? Ser Arthur had spoken highly of the lad since the Kingswood but what boy of her own age could protect a king? He was beyond handsome in the white cloak, his golden hair and green eyes the kind of combination to rival the Silver Prince - almost.

She moved to excuse herself early, bored and tired of playing at being a fine lady for now.

‘I shall accompany you-’ Rhaegar began to rise from his seat.

‘Do not trouble yourself,’ she said, knowing full well that he had hopes of speaking to various lords and knights for reasons better left unspoken. ‘Benjen will escort me.’

‘I will?’ he asked, confused by the sudden attention on him.

‘Of course.’ She took his arm and would not let go. ‘I’ve missed you, brother.’

They took a leisurely route back to her tent, chatting idly about silly things and funny things as he brought her up to speed with the news from Winterfell.

Harrenhal was crowded inside and out with tents, busy with people and thrumming with activity. Almost every patch of grass was taken up with tents of one sort or another: huge white tents for kitchens and serving folks’ various eating and resting needs; blacksmiths and armourers on the outskirts, and tents given over for the discreet expulsion of bodily fluids even further out.

Tents were also arranged around small areas for training, and it was one such that they came upon and found three squires beating and kicking seven shades of shit out of someone smaller and weaker than they.

‘Stop at once!’ Lyanna shouted, using her recently-acquired princess attitude.

They did not cease, for they did not take enough time away from their attention away their violence to see who addressed them. So, Lyanna leapt towards them, heavy skirts swinging, and pulled the nearest lad off the victim. Benjen followed to assist with the others.

She used her long sleeve to throttle the squire into submission, and it was only then that the victim’s identity became known. She felt sick with horror: ‘Howland! Gods, are you all right?’

Howland Reed, her friend and her father’s bannerman, brushed himself off. The squires had drawn blood and his left eye was already beginning to show the start of a fine bruise in rich purple shades. He tried to stand, but could not until Lyanna and Benjen assisted.

As they were distracted, the squires took the chance to run off.

‘Let us take care of you, Howland.’

Between them, Lyanna and Benjen helped Reed to the Stark tents, nearer than the royal ones.

Lyanna took to cleaning and dressing his wounds, as he would not allow her to call for help. It was like the old days at Winterfell, when she and Benjen would knock each other into the ground then care for each other afterwards.

‘Princess, you should not bother yourself-’

‘Hush, Howland. You are my friend. What brings you to the Tourney anyway?’

‘I had been at the Isle of Faces.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes.’ His green eyes glinted mysteriously even as his face twisted with pain. ‘Ouch.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Not your fault. Those bloody squires.’

‘You should join the lists and take on their masters,’ Benjen suggested.

‘I am no knight to joust,’ Howland replied.

‘We could get you some armour! Lyanna can get anything she likes!’

‘He exaggerates.’ Lyanna flicked a linen bandage at Ben. ‘But yes, I will help you in whatever way you like.’

She had actually been about to suggest taking matters into her own hands, but something about the quiet dignity of Lord Reed, even as he was torn apart with shame, stopped her from taking over. He reminded her of Rhaegar in that sense, and gods knew he hated to ask for help from anyone.

‘Even in the finest armour and with the best horse, I am no knight,’ Howland repeated. ‘I would be defeated even by Benjen here.’

‘Hey!’ Ben scowled. ‘I’m getting good.’

‘A jest, young pup.’

‘Why did they attack you?’

‘Why indeed? I was small and alone-’

Lyanna’s rage burned hot, then froze cold. ‘I would serve justice directly to their masters. Benjen, whose squires were they?’

‘Frey, Blount and Haigh.’

‘For certain?’

‘Yes. Two towers, porcupine and pitchfork. I’ve been studying, I told you. Precious little else to do at home with you gone.’

‘Don’t sulk, _young pup._ ’

He stuck his tongue out at her use of Howland’s description, which made Howland laugh then wince.

‘You will be our special guest this evening at the feast, Howland.’ Lyanna used her princess voice, which she hadn’t meant to do. ‘If you would like to.’

‘It would be my honour, but my appearance- I did not pack for feasting with kings.’

‘Benjen will sort you out with a tunic.’

‘And my injuries?’

‘Why,’ she said gaily, ‘They make you look distinguished. Now, I must return before my ladies panic.’

‘I’ll come with-’

‘No Ben, stay with Howland.’

‘No! I promised the prince I’d see you safely back.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Fine. Thank you, pup.’

A rolled up bandage hit her ineffectually in the head as she left, almost making her smile through her rage.

 

*

 

Back in her own tent, Lyanna vented her righteous anger to Ser Arthur, who was unlucky enough to be the first person she found. Still, it was fortunate that Rhaegar was still away, for she did not necessarily want to make a royal incident out of three nasty squires.

She had a plan, which handily also gave her the chance to do something she had never done before.

‘I’ll challenge their bloody lords in the Lists! I shall teach them a lesson!’ she declared, pacing like a caged wolf.

‘No Your Grace,’ Arthur returned, not for the first time since she had the idea. ‘You cannot.’

‘Says who?’

‘You are a lady and a princess.’

‘Nobody will know it’s me! Everyone loves a Mystery Knight!’

‘If they find out? It will be taken very badly, as if censure by the crown, and the King will take it as a personal insult!’

‘But-’

‘Please, _Lyanna!_ I can only keep you safe if you help me in return.’

‘Those boys thought it was all well and good to beat upon an unarmed man! How can that be allowed to go unpunished?’

‘I didn’t say it would. There are ways-’

‘We could instruct Lord Reed-’

‘I could not. I am Kingsguard.’

‘Fine, fine.’ Lyanna’s grey eyes glittered. ‘I’ll help him.’

 

*

 

She felt like they were on the edge of _something_ as she prepared for the feast. Selyse helped with her appearance in her usual unfussy way, knowing that Lyanna disliked fuss.

Denyse, who had been given into her service as a favour to Queen Rhaella, did not understand and kept trying to primp the Princess more than she could bear. Quite why she needed a second lady was beyond her, but if Rhaella asked, Lyanna would accept.

‘Denyse, please,’ Lyanna gritted her teeth. ‘You cannot make a great beauty out of me and I wish you would not.’

Denyse’s lower lip trembled. Lyanna took her hand from where it hovered over her hair. ‘You must not be afraid, my lady. You have nothing to fear here. I do not like to be trussed up like a piece of meat, that is all. Selyse will tell you that.’

‘Oh yes!’ Selyse piped up from where she had Lyanna’s red dress ready. ‘The princess is the very best kind of mistress to have.’

‘You would say that when I’m here,’ Lyanna joked back. ‘Talk when I’m not here and you will learn the truth, Denyse. Selyse will- oh gods, Selyse and Denyse?’

Lyanna grimaced at the rhyme, which made Selyse laugh and in her turn, Denyse too.

‘We will be friends, if you will allow, Lady Denyse.’

‘Yes… Your Grace.’

‘Excellent. Now, the sooner I’m trussed, you can join your families, ladies. You may not see much of them after the tourney.’

 

*

 

The feast was as grand and busy as she’d expected. The Stark table was full and looked like a lot of fun: Dustins and Hornwoods; Mormonts and Manderlys to name a few. Maege Mormont had waved her goblet in greeting but none had approached her at the King’s Table. Even Howland had respectfully declined a place with her, although he sat with the Starks.

It was all the King’s fault. He was like his own personal raincloud at best and a tornado of doom at his worst.

She was in another new dress, this time of Myrish silk in the blood red of the Targaryen Dragon, and it pushed her breasts up to appear fuller than they were. As they left their tent, Rhaegar had kissed her cheek and told her she looked beautiful. She had been touched by that, but was disgusted by the barely-hidden leers this dress garnered her.

Across the hall, Richard Lonmouth had become entangled in a drinking contest with the Baratheon lord, who leered at any woman who came within a few feet of him. Already most of the serving wenches were avoiding his table, leaving only the brave or ambitious to serve him.

As stomachs were full and candles were getting low, Rhaegar excused himself from her side. She thought little of it until a hush descended upon the gathering and she looked up to see him in the centre of the room with his harp. He rarely sang in public, but those who had heard him knew they were in for a treat.

She knew he had been working on a number of tunes, but he didn’t like her (or anyone) to listen until they were ready so they were not yet familiar to her.

He bowed to his father and spoke some pretty words for him that she instantly forgot as he began to play.

The stilling tones of the harp suited her husband, who carried unspoken sorrow around with him as naturally as he carried the look of Old Valyria. Rhaegar’s silver high harp was tuned to his melancholia and this song was no exception.

It was a song of regret and heartbreak, but also of hope. A song about the last dragon before they died out, the desolation of being the last of one’s kind, and yet hope that they might yet rise again.

Some would read it as an allegory but Lyanna could not feel beyond the overwhelming sadness of the song. Tears streamed down her face as his voice - rich, melodious and yearning - reached into her soul and took up residence.

For all her cajoling, Rhaegar had never really played for her, not as he did now. It was a hesitance born of humility she knew, but some warning of his true talent would have been nice.

He was breaking her heart. The music stirred a primal sadness in her, perhaps sent down the age in the blood of the First Men from the dark times.

His rich voice was as clear and perfect as the crystal bells of Baelor in the Great Sept.

He broke her heart and remade it anew, bursting with emotion. The source of her pain was also the healer, and she had never known the sadness had been in her heart all the time. If she was not in love before he began to sin, she was by the end of the first verse.

If the King had doused her in wildfire, Lyanna would have barely noticed.

There was a moment of total silence as the last note sustained itself for some moments and Rhaegar sat as if frozen, eyes closed and fingers hovering above the strings. Then applause and cheers for the Silver Prince who was, as far as all were concerned, a picture of knightly, princely perfection: a strong, brave warrior, yet thoughtful and courtly.

The Prince nodded his thanks but otherwise did not overtly respond to the overwhelming praise.

Lyanna wiped her tears as discreetly as she could, but she knew plenty of people had seen her. Some were always looking… always staring and assuming. Rhaegar returned to her then, carrying his harp. He touched her hand to gain her attention, and she saw up close that his eyes were bright with something she could not identify at first. Then it was obvious: it was the way she felt after a hard ride through the wolfswood.

‘Was it to your liking, my princess?’

She sniffled delicately and nodded, not trusting her voice at first. He handed off the harp to his squire, and brushed an errant tear from her cheek with his tum.

‘I enjoyed it very much,’ she finally managed as he took his place beside her again.

‘Then I have achieved my true goal.’ A flash of white teeth was all the smile she received, but in public it was a great deal.

‘When we return home,’ Lyanna sought to find some levity, ‘I expect you to sing for me all the time.’

‘All the time?’

‘Indeed. I have never… you have a rare and beautiful gift. Tis almost a shame you are a prince, not a travelling musician.’

‘That you should use those exact words,’ he whispered. ‘It was my dream when I was a boy, before I knew of the prophecy that made me a warrior instead.

Lyanna had a vivid vision then, of a young boy with silver hair sat surrounded by the gargoyles of Dragonstone with his harp and his dreams. Her heart ached, even as the image cane to the grown man, dressed in the simple garb of a traveller, his harp on his back and the scruff of many days travel on his face. Something else now ached.

‘Are you well, Your Grace?’ Selyse interrupted from her place nearby. ‘You look a little faint.’

‘I am well.’ Heart rushed to her face - to think of such things in a public a place! ‘Just warm.’

Rhaegar interrupted then: ‘We should start the dancing so that everyone else might join.’

His hands were warm as he led her to the floor. The paid musicians played a song neither jaunty nor sad, something right and proper for the royals to dance to. A sliver of her soul was still caught up in his song.

‘Everyone is watching us,’ she whispered. ‘I swear all the women here want you after that song. They watch to see if I am amongst them in that regard.’

‘Are you?’

‘I… A song like that does not set me aflame for you,’ she replied honestly. ‘It speaks to something far deeper. Stronger.’

His right hand moved to her waist. ‘That pleases me greatly, sweet wife.’

‘I’m not sweet.’

‘Yes, you are. When you’re not paying attention.’

‘Ha! Pretty words from the pretty prince all these people want.’

‘They can want all they like. I’m not my father, to dishonour my wife-’

‘Oberyn Martell thinks you _are_ dishonouring your wife.’ She glanced over to the Red Viper sat amongst the Dornish delegation. He had hardly looked away from Rhaegar or his father all night, and his dark eyes were narrowed with disgust or hate, or both.

‘Oberyn does not think rationally when it comes to his sister. I will speak to him.’

‘Be wary of him.’

‘Of course. There is more at stake than you and I, or Elia. He knows that. He also knows that I respect his sister.’

‘You do… but it must be galling for him to see you actually getting along with your new wife. No doubt he hoped we would hate each other.’

‘Getting along? Is that what you call it?’ he twirled her unexpectedly, which made her laugh out loud.

‘There are lots of names for it, I am learning.’

‘Indeed.’

The music ended and he bowed to her. Brandon was quick to claim her for another dance and before she knew where she was, two hours had passed and she had danced with her brothers and father, Arthur Dayne, Barristan Selmy, Myles Mooton, and Oberyn Martell.

‘You are not what I expected,’ he said, smooth Dornish accent washing over her.

‘Nor are you.’

‘Oh?’

‘You are more handsome and yet more ugly with that scowl, Prince Oberyn.’

‘I have cause to scowl, Lady Stark.’

‘I am not Lady Stark,’ she bit back. ‘Lady Stark was my mother.’

‘My apologies, I forget.’

‘No you don’t, and you don’t need to play at intrigues with me. Speak plainly.’

‘I see why my sister speaks well of you. You are beautiful and forthright.’

‘I am honoured by her kind words. I like your sister very much. I am a friend to Dorne, believe it or not.’

‘I do not believe it. You are where my sister should be.’

‘Dancing with you?’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘I have spoken of this with your sister and we are now friends. Let that be your guide. I am not inclined to defend myself to you in general and certainly not while dancing.’

‘Of course, _princess_.’

‘Where is the famed charm of Oberyn Martell?’ she wondered out loud. ‘I see nothing of the man I am told has left a trail of broken hearts wherever he goes.’

‘I am the Red Viper, _princess_. I leave a trail of hearts behind me that no longer beat.’

‘A threat, Prince Oberyn?’

‘An observation only. I would not harm any friend of Elia’s.’

 _There_ was the threat. Fortunately the song was over and Rhaegar came to claim a final dance. They danced almost in silence, and he was distracted.

‘Is it my previous partner?’ she asked softly as the dance brought them close together.

‘No… well, I am hardly happy about him but no… I had hoped… no matter. May I escort you back to our tent?’

‘Please. I’m so tired.’

With no more prompt than that, he dismissed Selyse and Denyse, then led Lyanna out into the moonlit night. Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell followed at a discreet distance, having apparently understood that a feast and a fine night such as this would necessitate such.

Indeed, Rhaegar’s route took them circuitously back to their tent and they talked in whispers on the way, indulging themselves in a little light gossip about the night and the tourney to come.

At Lyanna’s tent, they paused. She bit her lip and waited for him and what he might do next.

Rhaegar glanced at Arthur and Oswell. ‘Good night, good sers.’

Inside, he stripped himself of his jacket and sank onto the bed. ‘It is not as I hoped. Not at all.’

‘No?’

‘The weather is favourable, he explained. ‘But the threatening clouds are loathe to burst.’

She was at least used to his odd metaphors and similes, and this was not exactly an Oldtown-level cipher. ‘Perhaps even the weather bows to dragons.’

‘Yes, but… the dragons are centuries-gone. There are no more dragons, in truth.’

‘Of course there are.’ She stroked the side of his face and let him pull her to him. She felt all the heat of him and melted like a candle.

‘Every lady in the hall was quite taken with you,’ she said, free to vent her feelings. She wanted to rip out the throats of anyone who dared tempt him away.

He laughed, soft, and amused. His shirt was invitingly half open, and her jealousy began to ebb in favour of lust. ‘My wife is jealous, methinks.’

‘Am I not entitled to wish my husband for myself?’

‘Your wolf blood is showing,’ he said, moving to stand behind her.

His fingers reached up her back to the laces of her corset and she sighed with relief as it released and allowed her to breathe freely again. Her body burned for him from tip to toe and all places in between.

‘Will you sing for me when we return home?’

‘Of course.’ His breath was hot against her bare shoulder - he had slid the dress down without her noticing. ‘I will always sing for you.’

‘Only me?’

‘You are not talking about music.’

‘No, I am not.’ She turned to face him and caught his lips with hers. ‘Although if you never sing for anyone else again I would not mind. You are altogether too likely to make everyone fall in love with you.’

‘As long as you do, I don’t care.’ Abruptly, he stopped. ‘I cannot take you in a tent while we are so surrounded by people. Tents muffle no sound. It is not seemly.’

‘We can be quiet-’

‘No…’

‘We are here for another seven nights, Rhaegar…’

‘I cannot.’ He pulled her tighter into the embrace. ‘When we return home-’

‘That is an age! It is very poor form!’ She yanked herself away from him, seething in frustration, their twenty day separation still a sharp recent memory.

‘Lyanna-’

‘Go away’

‘Now, come here-’ He tried to tug her back to him, but she was stiff.

‘You cannot sing as you did, then touch me so, and then leave off! I cannot imagine it is pleasant for you either!’

Rhaegar swallowed hard. ‘It is not seemly,’ he repeated, though hardly with conviction.

‘Make no mistake, Dragon boy, you will fix this one way or another. I shall scream the whole of Harrenhal down-’

He came at her now, this time with a hard, crushing kiss, and she knew his inner dragon was now in control, which was just as she had wanted. ‘If you do scream, it will not be through frustration.’

‘Rhaegar…’ His name issued from her lips in a half-whispered request.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that happened.
> 
> Part II to follow soon. As always, comments welcome!


	22. The Laughing Tree

Rhaegar X

 

Rhaegar could not meet Ser Oswell’s eye as he left the tent to stretch his legs the next morning. The knight greeted him as he always did, but the prince felt he was smirking.

He could not actually regret any moment from the night before. Despite his courtly self’s propensity for hesitation and over-thinking, he rarely regretted the things his dragon-like self did. If he could unleash the dragon on Aerys - no, that would not do. Dragons did not kill other dragons, and definitely not their sires.

If he was being honest, his courtly self had sung for nobody but Lyanna, and what else did his courtly self want, if not her love and admiration?

It was barely dawn and only Rhaegar and Oswell were in sight. The air was cool and crisp and a light mist shrouded Harrenhal in a grey veil that only made it grimmer.

‘It was a grand night,’ Oswell spoke quietly to respect the hour. ‘Much carousing until the earlier hours.’

Rhaegar’s first irritated response died in his throat: Oswell was trying to reassure the self-conscious, bashful prince. Ser Oswell might have heard all but few others noticed, he was saying.

‘I imagine so. Did you not wish to spend more time with your family?’

Oswell barely even shrugged. ‘I have my duty. I will see them enough during the tourney.’

Rhaegar grasped the knight’s hand and shook it firmly, an unusually egalitarian move for a Targaryen. ‘You are a good man, Ser Oswell.’

‘So are you, Your Grace.’

‘Rhaegar?’ Lyanna poked her head out of the tent. ‘There you are. Good morning, Os.’

‘Are you well, Your Grace?’ The Kingsguard kept his eyes trained on hers, and not on the strip of bare neck that hinted at a greater nudity behind the canvas.

‘I slept extremely well, thank you. I would like to wash shortly-’

‘I will call for a servant, Your Grace.’ Oswell hurried away, leaving husband on one side of the tent and wife on the other.

He was unfathomably overcome by shyness for a moment. Often twas the way when the courtly prince was in control again after the dragon had taken over. Shy but not regretful.

‘Rhaegar, come inside. I won’t eat you alive. Whatever is wrong?’

‘I was rather… rough with you-’ He spied marks on her shoulder blades as he followed her back into the tent: his own fingers. And teeth, from the looks of it…

‘Yes, rather wonderfully so, I thought.’ Grey eyes gleamed in the dim light and she reached out for him, needing to touch him again.

He knew not quite what to think. The courtly prince was aghast at his behaviour; the dragon was well-pleased at both his performance and her response.

Lyanna rested her hands on his chest. ‘Gods Rhaegar, I love you so. Do you think anyone would notice if we ran away?’

‘Only everyone.’ The words were light but he tried to ignore her declaration and the fact he could not and would not repeat them back to her.

‘Very well… I will just have my bath. I might return to bed afterwards. I am very tired.’

‘I will take you to Summerhall soon.’ Gods, where had that come from? He had never thought to take Elia, or anyone-

‘Summerhall?’

‘Yes. It will be we two alone.’

‘And Arthur?’

‘Well, yes.’

‘And Os?’

‘Possibly, if Father can spare him.’

‘And a hundred ghosts.’

‘Yes.’

‘But other than that, quite alone. When do we leave?’

‘As soon as we may.’

Now the idea had been given form, Rhaegar wanted nothing more than to share Summerhall with her. She would feel it, see it for what it was beyond the broken stones. And they could-

Once again, his dragon fought the courtly prince. She would look her wild, natural self at Summerhall. They would bathe in the river and sleep under the stars-

The dragon growled deep inside his soul, and tugged at his restraints.

‘Lyanna, my sweet wife, please dress.’

‘Why?’ Her grey eyes met his with mischief.

‘Because we must attend the tourney.’

‘Oh that. Really, we must?’

‘Yes.’

A strange expression slid on and off her face as she shrugged a robe over the form he loved so much. ‘Very well. I shall behave. For now.’

Servants and hot water arrived shortly after that, followed in short measure by Selyse and Denyse, who fussed over his wife with a kind of unrelenting determination that would have served them well if they had been knights.

 

*

 

The melee was as brutal and messy as it ever could, should or would be. Robert Baratheon prevailed, and was as graceless a victor as Rhaegar knew he would be, but there was no denying he was a fearless and skilled warrior. He would be an excellent ally, but Rhaegar could not like him. Was it really because the man had made a clumsy pass at Lyanna once? That had been almost two years ago and also happened to be the incident which brought Lyanna _to him_. The princely, civilised thing to do would be to move on.

From his place beside his father’s currently unoccupied chair in the royal box, Rhaegar listened to Lyanna’s brothers bicker about Benjen joining the lists - inspired by Jaime Lannister and Barristan the Bold. It made him yearn for siblings of his own to have grown up with, and his lonely childhood echoed in his mind until Lyanna’s smile brought him back to the present day.

The blood and gore of the melee, and the restless night they’d experienced worked upon Lyanna and she excused herself then.

‘Benjen will see me back safely. I would also like to see my friend Lord Reed is well,’ she said. ‘Then I shall retire awhile. I am… tired from the journey.’

‘Of course.’ He kissed her hand and let the two youngest Starks leave, wishing he could follow.

 

*

The Prince of Dragonstone was distracted as the jousting began. He would not be called upon to joust yet, and his wife’s indisposition kept his attention with her instead of at the Lists with his corporeal form. He could only blame himself, as she had been more than well before. He stopped those thoughts before they could take root, and schooled himself into the neutrality he was known for.

The opening jousts were always dull and made up of middling knights, except on those occasions when a mystery competitor-

A voice cut across his thoughts then: ‘I challenge the Lords Frey, Blount and Haigh!’

A mystery knight had arrived at that very moment as if conjured by his own thoughts as they formed. Smaller than the average knight, and wearing an ill-fitting suit of armour cobbled together from at least three other sets, he gave no name. His shield bore a sigil of a white heart tree, its bleeding scarlet face painted into a mocking grin.

He rode away then, and all Rhaegar had a chance at was observing his very fine seat on the black charger.

A curious hush fell over the crowd as they waited to see how this story would unfold: the knight took Frey with a single, only slightly faltering lance. Haigh was blindsided as the Knight grew in confidence. Finally, Blount almost caught him with his lance but the little knight neatly ducked in a way most full-sized Knights could never manage, then swung his lance backwards and took the lord by surprise.

By the second joust, the knight had been dubbed “The Knight of the Laughing Tree” and Rhaegar fancied there were songs already being written.

When asked his forfeit of the three, the Knight did not remove his helm but spoke darkly: ‘Teach your squires honour.’

It was then that a story about their squires beating Howland Reed swept across the tourney fields and to their credit, the three lords berated and scolded their squires publicly. All was well and the Mystery Knight demanded no more, yet he had to present himself to the King.

The Knight bowed to the King, whose booming voice rang out across the field of victory.

‘Unmask yourself, that I might praise you,’ King Aerys croaked, leaning forward in his box, almost dangerously far across.

Rhaegar’s arms twitched, anticipating the moment where he would have to catch his father lest he topple from the stand. It would not do for any king to die in so undignified a fashion… but the dark voice in Rhaegar’s head knew it would be fitting.

Despite the fear King Aerys invoked in most people, the mysterious little knight shook his hidden head and bowed again. He rode away without delay, his horse kicking up the dirt as he did.

Then Robert bloody Baratheon opened his furious mouth. ‘Who is that little bastard to slight the king so?’

‘Find him and bring him to me!’ the King hissed. He had not been paying much attention to the scrawny knight, but now felt the insult of not knowing his identity.

Rhaegar had an inkling - or rather, a strong suspicion - who the knight was. If he was right, he had to act and act _now_.

‘Find him!’ the King hissed, his paranoia surfacing in full, his whole being vibrating with agitation and terror.

‘I will do so, Father! Worry not!’ he called out, putting a stop to any other plan.

He strode out to his own horse and wasted no time in riding away, with Arthur and Oswell in close pursuit. He galloped through the grounds towards the godswood, following little more than a hunch.

There, in the sanctuary of the Heart Tree’s shadow, the Knight shed his mismatched armour as best he could without assistance. Rhaegar slowed his horse to a stop some distance away and for a moment, simply observed.

Lyanna’s hair was wild and damp with sweat and her face was red from her exertions. Her leather under-armour clung to her body. He suspected it belonged to Benjen and it fitted badly: too long but also too tight in places. She was so busy trying to divest herself of her armour that she did not notice his arrival.

‘The Knight of the Laughing Tree, I presume?’ he asked, calling across the thick lawn of grass that led to the tree itself.

She dropped her breastplate on her foot and swore loudly as the metal bounced and slid out of sight into the glistening pool at her feet.

He barely turned to his companions. ‘Good sers, your services are not needed.’

Arthur did not bother hiding a smirk. ‘We’ll wait for you at the edge of the godswood, Your Grace.’

‘As you like.’

He dismounted and approached her in several long strides. She pulled off the metal cuff protecting her forearm. He took it from her and tossed it onto the ground.

‘You could’ve been killed! What were you thinking?’ He wanted to _scream_ at her but kept himself under good regulation - just.

She took a step back. ‘Please don’t be angry with me! An injustice had to be righted. Howland has many skills but jousting is not one. I wanted to do it and- you saw the state those squires left him in! He is my friend-’

‘That’s what I am here for! I was going to-’

‘Do what? Scowl menacingly? Have a stern word?’

He was silent a moment, and she took the chance to speak further.

‘I always wanted to be a knight. This way, I got my wish _and_ justice for my friend. It was all I needed, I shan’t do it again-’

‘My father wants your head. The Knight’s, I mean.’

Her defensive posture disappeared, terror of the King overriding almost every other feeling. ‘Oh… Rhaegar, what are you going to- I was finished, I promise-’

‘Shush, wife.’ He rolled forward onto the balls of his feet and took her into his arms.

Any anger borne from his own fears was gone now she was stood there with him, quite safe for now and all he could think of was the image he painted for him now.

‘Bewitching woman. Wild woman.’ His lips burned as they met her bare shoulder and she shivered when his hair tickled her neck.

‘We should go,’ she said feebly. ‘Has my absence been noticed?’

‘Of course. I said you were feeling queasy.’

‘Dignified choice.’

‘If they think you’re pregnant, they definitely won’t be looking for you in a set of armour. And I…’ He trailed his tongue along her collarbone and felt a surge of lust as she let out the tiniest of moans. ‘I would prefer you not to wear other men’s armour.’

‘Would you prefer I wore yours?’

An image of Lyanna in his black and ruby armour flashed in his mind and it was almost enough to finish him before he’d even started. When her hands crept under his tunic, he had to summon every shred of restraint he had.

‘The Knight of the Laughing Tree rode off and all that was found was his shield,’ Rhaegar spoke in a voice more tremulous than he would like as he conjured what the truth would be from the thin air. It was hardly the first time a mystery knight remained a mystery…

‘Thank you, _dear_ Rhaegar…’ She stopped moving a moment, which made him growl softly. ‘How did you know it was me?’

He raised his eyebrow at her. ‘I do not generally find the swing of a knight’s hips so familiar or alluring.’

She smirked and removed the last piece of armour. Clad only in the too-small leather, she presented one of the most inviting pictures he had ever seen. What was it about breeches on her that called to his dragon self?

‘We should not return yet,’ he said. ‘I would hate for the King to think I did not search thoroughly.’

‘What do you propose?’ she asked, looking up from under her eyelashes.

‘We never did have a ceremony in front of your gods.’

Her mouth dropped open: it was not what she had been expecting. He took off his cloak and wrapped it around her. The red dragon on the front winked up at him thrice as the fabric settled.

‘I give myself to you, and only you, today and for all the days to come,’ he spoke clearly, so that the Old Gods would know he was in earnest.

‘I give myself to you, and only you, today and for all the days to come,’ she repeated. ‘You do know that the Old Gods require more?’

‘Certainly, Lyanna. Lovely, wonderful Lyanna. My wife, Lyanna.’

He removed the cloak last of all. A light breeze swirled through the godswood and the leaves of the trees rustled a gentle, approving song.

 

*

 

Prince Rhaegar presented the Knight of the Laughing Tree’s shield to his scowling father at the feast that evening.

‘He has melted away, royal father. I do believe whatever point he wished to prove has been made. I believe he meant no harm or insult to you.’

‘Who are you to proclaim so to me? You do not know the truth of men’s hearts! Dark, they are, who would see their King fall!’

Whether the Knight of the Laughing Tree meant harm or not, the King’s words cast fresh fear into the hearts of those present.

‘I have so few true friends.’ Those mournful words from such a man could augur a tense feast or executions.

Once again, as so many times before, it fell to the heir to protect the realm from the man whose job protecting the realm should have been.

Rhaegar fell smoothly to his knees and let the wooden shield fall to the ground with a clunk. ‘Then let me be the first to freshly pledge my fealty to you, my father and my King.’

Silence. Who would be next? For a painfully long moment, nobody moved. Then, Lord Rickard Stark rose to his feet.

‘We are brother by marriage and I pledge myself and my House to that kinship.’ He then dropped the knee.

Rhaegar’s heart thumped and the blood rushed through his veins as the rest of the lords present made their own oaths. He sincerely hoped that his father failed to notice the exact wording of pledges like Stark’s, which did not exactly promise loyalty to Aerys’ specific person.

The sight of his assembled Lords on their knees soothed the King’s paranoia and stoked the fire of his arrogance. His grin was uneven and ugly, twisted in the wickedness that consumed him.

Rhaegar found he missed his father when he had been simply dissolute and smug, rather than vicious and mad. Oh, those Duskendale bastards had so much to answer for!

As the feast returned to a more normal level of revelry, he dared to glance at Lyanna. She kept her gaze case uncharacteristically down, subdued and quiet.

After their godswood marriage and following romantic interlude, he knew things had changed forever. He had made a pledge to her this day as well. He had chosen to be her husband today for no other reason than he wanted to be, and she the same.

Still, he could not quite forget the danger she had put herself in. He admired her bravery and loved her loyalty to her friend. Most of all, he was pleased for her well-developed instinct and comprehension of justice.

If he turned mad himself when he was one day King, his Queen would step in. In this, she was absolutely different to his mother. Gods, he hoped she was making the most of her respite from her brutal husband.

‘Rhaegar?’ Lyanna caught his attention. It was unusual for her to use his given name in public. ‘I am feeling a little unwell. Truly this time.’

Immediately on seeing her wan complexion, he helped her away from the table.

‘I’m sure it will pass. Just a moment of-’

Next he knew, Lyanna was a dead weight in his arms, fainted away. He knew the company would be full of the story of the Prince carrying his wife out of the feast, but he cared not.

 

*

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Concrit always welcome!


	23. To Victors, The Spoils

Lyanna XI.a

Lyanna wandered through the quiet of Harrenhal in the silent hours just before dawn. A few torches were lit here and then, casting flickering shadows through the icy mist. It was still not cold like Winterfell was cold, and she was quite comfortable walking barefoot, her night-gown floating as she moved through the campsite towards the tower.

As she passed through an archway in the high, thick stone wall, she saw Winter Roses growing on a wall. They were soft and perfect under her touch and all was well for a moment or two. She felt the unnatural light of a false moon on her skin, which tingled and crackled, and the soft grass underfoot was a brighter green than she’d ever seen before.

Ahead, a glimpse of blond hair disappeared around a corner. Her heart sped up and blood rushed south so intensely that she felt unable to walk.

She moved easily and yet excruciatingly slowly, her legs like molten steel as it started to cool.

All she cared about was catching up, cared with all her heart and soul and flaming desire for her quarry, her destiny, her fate. She worried that he would get too far ahead and she could not catch up but eventually she turned the corner into the centre of the godswood at Winterfell and there he was, lounging under the Heart Tree.

His long legs struck out across the grass, booted feet almost in the pond, and his open tunic was a promise of hard, smooth chest. His long, gifted fingers beckoned her as the rich mouth teased her forth.

Lyanna reached out for him and was _so close_ and then-

The world was on fire.

Ice sliced through the North; a million people dying and a million people rising again with ice in their veins and eyes; Elia Martell and her babes; her father set amongst evil green flames as Brandon struggled against thick brown ropes that strangled the life from him; war spreading across Westeros like a sickness; and Rhaegar dead in rushing water staining red with his blood.

She awoke then, startled bolt upright by horror. Tangled sheets restrained her.

Sweat ran down her back and between her breasts and cooled instantly as her flesh rose into uncomfortable goosebumps. Her breath came in short, terrified bursts and her heart would burst from her chest if it didn’t slow down soon.

 _What_ was that? A dream of things to come? One of a life that might have been? Was it a warning or a prophecy? Why now? Why him?

Still, Lyanna tried to catch her breath.

Benjen often had dreams that he’d shared in detail but Lyanna rarely remembered hers. She wasn’t the kind of person to put great stock in dreams. She wasn’t like Benjen. Her heart continued to hammer against her ribs and she grabbed at each breath.

Slowly she started to feel the reality of her situation. Her husband was sat in a chair beside her bed, close, alive, and anticipating her response now she was awake.

Hadn’t they been at a feast? How had she come to be here now? Had she taken strong drink without realising? Had she made a fool of herself? How much time had passed? What had happened?

She hated not remembering, hated uncertainty, even more than she hated the dream.

Rhaegar reached for her hand. ‘You are in our tent, my love. You fainted. The Maester is on his way.’

‘Fainted?’ she repeated, still overcome. She rested back down into the pillows and wondered why Rhaegar was smiling at her so oddly.

Then there was darkness again. Darkness but mercifully, no dream.

*

 

Rhaegar X

 

Rhaegar’s stride out of the hall had been brisk and long. No matter Lyanna’s true weight, she was as light as a feather in his arms until she was securely in their bed, away from curious eyes. Only then did his arms burn a little from their efforts.

She stirred in and out of consciousness a few times within minutes since arriving in the tent,

Whent’s Maester, an old and rheumy-eyed fellow, had been sent for and attended quickly. He examined Lyanna, and seemed not-at-all fussed by the sudden unconscious state of the Princess.

‘Nothing too serious,’ he told the Prince with far more cheer than seemed appropriate. ‘Especially as she didn't hit her head on the way down. Her blood was very slow… but it’s nothing seven moons or thereabouts won’t cure.’

‘She is with child?’ Rhaegar asked, his voice sounding far, far away inside his own head. Was he about to faint as well? That would surely keep people talking.

‘Yes, Your Grace. My congratulations, if I may be so bold.’

It had _happened_. At last - and yet perhaps sooner than he wanted in some ways.

If all was well, his hopes and dreams would come to pass. His prophecy was finally coming to life. A son would guarantee succession, a daughter proved their ability to produce. All would surely be well, as she was so fond of telling him!

Yet as he looked at Lyanna slumbering, Rhaegar was overcome with anxieties, fears and a powerful, paralysing dread that threatened to destroy every happy thought. What if the child did not survive to birth? What if he did not flourish after leaving the womb? What if the coin toss was against him? What if it killed Lyanna? What would the King say?

They would have to announce this to him publicly. That would mitigate any worst response - would it not?

Lyanna stirred. ‘Rhae-’

‘Shush, lovely girl. You just fainted.’

‘Just? I don’t just faint!’ She was fully awake now, at last, and not pleased. ‘I’ll never live it down if Brandon or Ben hear of this. Did anyone see me?’

‘They will understand. You fainted because it has happened, Lyanna! You are carrying a dragon.’

Her face scrunched and he could almost see her counting days in her head. ‘Oh. _Oh._ Oh!’

The brightness that broke across her face was hardly even a smile, for it was so much more: as if she had lit a dozen candles inside her mind that illuminated her from the inside out.

‘All will be well,’ he said. He wanted to climb onto the bed and wrap himself around her, but the Maester-

Without realising, he had done just that, Maester be damned!

‘Call on me at any time,’ the Maester said as he slipped out of the tent, leaving them to themselves.

‘I am so very, very happy.’ Lyanna spoke quietly but the words roared in his ears.

‘As am I.’ He could feel her heart beating against his chest, e

‘Oh gods!’ She sat up, abject and absolutely horror now wrought upon her face. ‘I… I _jousted_! I could have- what if- Oh, _Rhaegar_!’

In his tumultuous euphoria, he had not considered that and the pit of his stomach dropped. He recovered quickly for her sake. ‘You were not to know. None of them so much as brushed you with their lances. I am proud of you for that.’

‘What if I had been-’ she leaned across him to retch into the receptacle left by the Maester for such a purpose. ‘What a pretty picture I make.’

‘I think you do.’ He meant it. ‘Still, I shall get you some water.’

She drank the offered glass of water thirstily. ‘A child…’

‘Indeed. Thank you, wife.’

‘Don’t thank me until he is here with us, hale and hearty.’

‘He will be. All will be well.’

‘You keep saying that.’

‘It is a philosophy I learnt from you.’

‘Are _you_ going to joust?’ she asked, scowling. ‘What if you get hurt?’

‘I will be fine.’ Rhaegar felt himself smirking proudly. ‘There are few finer with a lance than I.’

She very obviously swallowed one joke for another: ‘And humble, too.’

He laughed at that, and the joke she was too polite or weary to tell. ‘I worked hard for it. I did not want to-’ he stopped himself, feeling the danger of sharing too much.

‘What do you mean?’ Too late. She shifted around so they were now face to face.

‘I have always preferred books and thought to fighting and action. I’m not really a warrior.’

‘But you’re so good at it! I’ve not sparred with many men of course, but I _have_ gone up against The Sword of the Morning and you are certainly his equal.’

‘You are kind, wife. But it is not my calling… I became a warrior because I had to. Or I thought so.’

‘You are not making much sense. It’s all about the prophecy, the one you’ve been studying, I suppose?’

‘Yes.’

‘One day you’re going to explain it all in full, you know.’

‘Yes. At Summerhall,’ he promised. ‘In the meantime, the tourney-’

‘I don’t care about the tourney any longer.’

‘Nor I, yet I must take part.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it is expected. I must show my strength - at least some of it - and even if I wanted to avoid it, I have been challenged as well.’

‘What idiot was stupid enough to challenge _you_?’

‘Brandon.’

She sat up again then. ‘My brother Brandon? Of course he would. Of _course_. I will kill him!’

Rhaegar gently nudged her back down. ‘Rest, sweet girl. It’s late. Tomorrow I’ll face him and… I beg your pardon, but I will set him to rights.’

She scowled then, obviously caught between brother and husband. ‘Please, don’t hurt him! He’s an excellent rider you know, almost as good as me.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ He smiled at the new scowl on her face and could not help but kiss it away. ‘We should sleep now. It’s late…’

‘Rhaegar…?’ Her eyes fluttered shut again. ‘I’m… so… happy…’

‘So am I. So am I.’

Disrobed, he joined her in the bed and curled himself around her. As he fell asleep, he could not think of a moment where he had been so _content_ and for once, did not question the duration of the feeling. He simply _was_.

 

*

 

Lyanna XI.b

 

Brandon and Rhaegar’s joust was one of the most anticipated of the entire tourney, and the stands were overcrowded with spectators. Had she been less concerned about the welfare of her idiot brother, she might have been worried about a crush.

Since when did every thought she have always turn to considerations of the worst possible outcome? Gods, she hated her good-father with every fibre of her being and every scrap of her soul and could not even give voice to her feelings.

In any case, what in all the kingdoms was Brandon _thinking_? Why would he challenge _Rhaegar bloody Targaryen_? Everyone knew her husband was both one of the finest jousters in Westeros _and_ the heir to the throne! It was just bloody-minded arrogance!

‘You’re a fool!’ she whispered as he leaned over to kiss her hand. ‘You’re just a fool! You’ll end up on your arse or worse.’

Worry not, sister dear!’ He fingered a strip of purple silk tied to his wrist. ‘I am easily as good as him.’

The favour fluttered on Brandon’s wrist. Was it Ashara Dayne’s? Her mind turned to Ashara and Elia in King’s Landing, and she hoped that they were safe and well. Somehow, she would not put it past the King to have some accident befall the princess while he and her uncle and brother were all safely far, far away: he to avoid blame and them to be kept from her defence.

She rolled her eyes and pretended she had no idea: ‘You found another woman so soon after Lady Catelyn? That is bad form, Brandon-’

‘The King decreed that Catelyn Tully and I may not marry,’ he said, an unknown look upon his face. ‘Father has already made another arrangement with Lord Hoster.’

‘Oh?’ Curiosity fought with hurt that this was news to her.

‘Ned for Catelyn. They got along passably well and the King is amenable to a second son.’ He spoke so casually, as though it were not lives that were being reordered on a king’s whim.

‘And you? What about you?’

His smile was Flint-like and enigmatic all at once. ‘Ah, now there is a question.’

‘Brandon-’

‘I will get through the tourney first. I don’t want to end up chased away like the Knight of the Laughing Tree.’

Her smile froze. Had he guessed? ‘No, you do not. Be careful, Brandon. Rhaegar really is one of the best.’

He ignored her advice, as she knew he would, so she just took her place beside the King and watched with her heart practically in her mouth as that wild wolf readied himself at one end of the lists.

Prince Rhaegar - magnificent in his black and ruby armour, the dragon-helm shining darkly in bright spring sunshine - rode to the royal box and paid homage to his father before turning to Lyanna. All eyes were on them and Lyanna strove to keep her feelings in good regulation. In truth, she wanted to launch herself over the balustrade at him. Whether from lust or the equally strong desire to stop him risking his health, she was not sure.

His voice rang out from under the helm, rich and strong: ‘A favour, beloved princess?’

She reached across to affix something to his arm: a thin strip of material. His eyes widened a moment and it was all she could do not to laugh at his response to seeing a thin strip of leather attached to him: it was a lace from the under-armour she had worn as the Knight of the Laughing Tree.

‘Don’t hurt him,’ she whispered, but Rhaegar was already gone towards his end of the tourney ground.

Brandon and Rhaegar were as opposite as could be: the former all noisy bluster and the latter all controlled confidence. She dared not look at the King, lest he make comment about Brandon that she would feel compelled to defend.

The joust began and Rhaegar’s lance slammed into Brandon’s chest plate and shattered. He wobbled dangerously but remained seated.

The second lance sent him off his horse into the dirt, but he scrambled to his feet and the fight continued with sword. It was much more Brandon’s speciality but it was also Rhaegar’s so they were remarkably well matched.

Brandon had indefatigable strength; Rhaegar had graceful skill, more beautiful dance than fight. It was a more even-handed fight than anyone except Brandon’s arrogance had expected.

Lyanna then realised that Rhaegar was holding back. He had heard her plea, and she prayed that Brandon did not notice.

When Rhaegar caught his right arm, Brandon simply switched to his left hand and surprised all that he was quite skilled with his left. Yet, it was a weakness he could not quite overcome when faced with the great Prince of Dragonstone, and it was not much longer until Brandon was on his back in the dirt and yielded to the Silver Prince.

Brandon accepted defeat with honourable humour. ‘Well, good-brother, what would you have me forfeit?’

Rhaegar removed his helm and shook out his long hair for such an extended moment that Lyanna suspected he was doing it on purpose. Women sighed, men envied. She herself felt two twinges: one in her heart and one in her groin that promised to bloom into a raging fire.

Rhaegar shook his head and held his hand out to help Brandon up. ‘House Stark has already given me a precious and immeasurable gift. I ask nothing but your friendship.’

‘Well,’ Brandon boomed. ‘You already have that. And my respect, Your Grace.’

Applause rippled around the tourney ground and singers were already writing songs. They presented themselves to the King on his balcony, who was always pleased when a Targaryen bested anyone.

Lyanna left the royal box to greet them both on the ground, and embraced her brother first.

‘I’m just glad you’re both unhurt,’ Lyanna told Brandon.

‘Who said unhurt?’ he mumbled into her ear as they hugged, honest but unwilling to lose face. ‘I landed right on my arse.’

‘And bruised your brains?’

‘Oh shush, you. I shall see you later?’

‘Yes, of course. In the meantime, I must watch my husband risk himself again. Part of me wishes you’d won just so he could stop this.’

‘You used to love the joust.’

‘Yes. That was before-’

‘Before?’

‘Nothing.’ She could not tell him about the Knight of the Laughing Tree _or_ the child, so made her excuses and rushed back to the stands as Brandon returned to the care of his squire.

 

*

 

The Prince of Dragonstone’s next - and final - opponent was his best friend and loyal knight, Ser Arthur Dayne. The sight of the two men, both bearing the aristocratic look of Old Valyria, stirred the crowd into a frenzy and now Lyanna really did fear for the crowd almost as much as for her husband.

‘I know all your tricks,’ Arthur teased as the opponents met.

‘And I know all yours.’

‘You got me at Storm’s End but you won’t get me again!’

She did not fear this joust as much as the previous round: she knew that Arthur would never willingly hurt Rhaegar and was skilled enough to avoid accidents.

Tension in the crowd built to a near-orgasmic frenzy as the two evenly matched knights broke eight lances _each._ On the seventeenth, Prince Rhaegar took Ser Arthur by surprise and unhorsed him. Neither had the appetite to continue from there and Arthur yielded with characteristic grace and Rhaegar took his victory with typical apparent serenity.

The tourney belonged to Rhaegar. He knelt to his father.

‘Your Grace,’ he spoke loudly enough for others to hear. ‘I dedicate my victory to you, now and always.’

King Aerys was pleased by that, but it was not the moment everyone was waiting for. A crown of blue winter roses was brought out and handed to the victor.

Excited whispers rushed across the audience at sight of it. Blue winter roses were almost impossible to come by except in the wild North, and he must have gone to some effort to acquire them. Such was surely a public declaration of devotion to this unexpected second wife? The enigmatic prince had made no such declarations for the first. The whispers of gossip and guessing filled the space louder than any shouting would.

Prince Rhaegar wasted no time in directing his bright white horse to her, yet it was still too long a wait. As he placed the crown on her head, he whispered to her: ‘For you, if you swear never to joust any man but me.’

He took obvious glee from the blush that bloomed across her face at his words, then turned to the people: ‘My Queen of Love and Beauty, now and for all times!

Wild cheers from all sides, as the North-South pact was proving extremely popular. The King smirked, which was as unsettling as always.

‘Behold the might of House Targaryen!’ he cackled. ‘And tremble!’

‘I thank you for gracing our humble tourney,’ Lord Whent knelt before the King. ’You honour me and my house.’

‘A King must see his subjects. A king _does_.’ The King’s mood changed and an ice wind seemed to whip through the stands. ‘I see all!’

Rhaegar gripped her hand a moment, then released it. ‘Father, shall we retire? Your loyal subjects have been honoured enough.’

Lyanna greatly admired her husband’s understanding of just how to handle the King. Never phrasing anything as more than a suggestion, always on the right side of deferential and always, always calm.

Aerys accepted this and the crowd applauded as the King and his Silver Prince left the field of victory, the Queen of Love & Beauty following closely behind, her blue crown bright and vivid against her dark hair.

 

*

 

Rhaegar and Lyanna were forced to listen to the King’s ramblings for above an hour, he roused into manic glee at the victory, until he wearied and took to his bed. Only then were they released and were able to return to their tent.

Rhaegar was finally able to strip himself of his armour, and only then did Lyanna see the extent of his victory.

‘By all the gods, Rhaegar!’ she yelped. ‘What did they _do_ to you?’

His torso was now a patchwork of purple, blue and black bruises as they blossomed across his chest and back. His armour had done its job admirably, but could not prevent all the force of the many lances.

‘I shall…’ he winced as he moved his sore, equally bruised shoulder, ‘…get Arthur back one of these days.’

‘I’ll call for the Maester-’

‘No, you don’t need to. Just… there’s ointment in that chest over there.’

Lyanna applied the sharp-smelling gunk as he guided her. It was the least romantic moment she could think of between the two of them that didn't involve her vomiting, and yet it was indescribably intimate, and she felt great power at being the one to care for him.

‘Thank you, my love.’

‘I would like to never see you joust ever again,’ she said. ‘But I know you will.’

‘Did you not find my bravery stirring?’

‘Stirring? That’s a new word for it… while I’m sure other women made their small clothes damp at sight of you on that horse, my concern was mostly that you would come away unscathed to be father to your child.’

‘So you were not even _slightly_ _…_ entertained?’

Lyanna blushed furiously, knowing she could not lie and yet not wanting to admit it. ‘Twas enthralling, truly. You have a fine seat and you are the courtliest of knights. But… never go up against Arthur ever again. Promise.’

‘I will not promise that. But I will promise to avoid it if I can.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Your brother was a revelation. He is wild, like you, and he is strong and brave. Also like you.’

‘I didn’t know he could fight left handed.’

‘Probably something he should have kept secret for when it really matters.’

‘Brandon doesn’t think like that. He has no mind for the future, or the past, only now.’

‘If he is not to marry the Tully girl, what will he do?’

‘I have no idea. There.’ She stood back to admire her handiwork. ‘Does it still hurt?’

‘Only a little.’

‘Liar.’

‘Only a little.’ Rhaegar smiled a little and reached out to touch the flowers still on her head. ‘We will announce our news at the closing feast, yes?’

‘If we must.’

‘A public announcement will keep my father in regulation. I hope.’

‘He is the one who wanted this! How could he object?’

‘I don’t think he will but… who knows?’

‘Very well. I’ll call your squire to deal with your armour. You should rest awhile, my brave, purple prince.’

 

*

 

Lord Whent was as proud as any man ever had been as the closing feast brought his tourney to a fitting end, and had been about to embark on a heartfelt speech when Prince Rhaegar craved the indulgence of his host.

‘I have been most fortunate here at Lord Whent’s tourney, and yet I have cause for further joy. I am pleased to tell you, my royal father, that you will soon have a grandchild, a new dragon for your proud royal line.’

Silence, then polite applause as everyone waited to see how King Aerys would respond.

The King raised his hand for quiet, then struggled to his feet. ‘We are glad for your news, young Prince. May the gods bless this dragon-child, for he is part of a grander scheme, the line to last a thousand years!’

Now the assemblage felt comfortable to cheer and applaud again, sincerely this time. From her place near the King, Lyanna let out the breath she’d been holding. The King did not even look at her, did not even consider her role in the production of a new Targaryen child. For that, now the no longer theoretical child was under her protection, she was endlessly glad.

 

*

 

The Great Tourney at Harrenhal ended quite abruptly after the Prince’s victory and the grand closing feast. People were weary in general and of feasting in particular. Even Robert Baratheon seemed subdued on that last night.

Lord Rickard and Benjen left at daybreak the morning after the closing feast, citing their long journey home, and the Winterfell contingent struck camp with practised ease and swiftness.

Bidding them farewell felt far more final to Lyanna now than it did when she left Winterfell. She was now irrevocably and definite married, had a child coming and in every way had made herself a new life.

The idea of being more excited to travel south than the idea of returning north was strange indeed.

‘I will see you in the South, she commanded her father. ‘I _will_.’

The Warden of the North embraced his royal daughter and kissed both her cheeks, but made no promises.

Returning to a childlike state for just a brief moment, Benjen clung tightly for a long moment.

‘You will come down, won’t you?’

‘Yes! If not Father, then I’ll make Ned come!’

Lyanna watched her father and brother ride away with their party with something eerily like relief. It was not at seeing them leave, but at the prospect of getting out of Harrenhal’s long shadow.

The Royal Party were next to go and all others turned out to bid the King and the Prince farewell. Everyone agreed it had been a magnificent tourney, the likes of which would be remembered for many years.

The King’s caravan included Brandon Stark, for reasons he had yet to share with his sister.

Lyanna despised the wheelhouse but at least had a reasonable need to use it this time, and the King had elected to stay alone in his own wheelhouse. Selyse and Denyse chattered happily and the journey was about as easy as it could be as far as King’s Landing, despite her occasional sickness and the inability to sleep well.

It was not the travelling, nor the unfamiliar lodgings in various keeps and inns, but the images of her nightmare, seemingly burned into the back of her eyelids. It was easy to ignore them during the waking hours, but in the dark of night when the rest of the world slept, Lyanna could not hide.

The world was on _fire_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all your comments so far - I really appreciate them all, even/especially concrit.
> 
> Next, to Summerhall... unless you want to see what Cersei Lannister said when she heard the big news ;)


	24. The Girl Who Would Be Queen

Cersei II

 

Spring had definitely arrived in the Crownlands, but for Tywin Lannister’s only daughter there was nothing but rainclouds as far as the eye could see.

Life in the Red Keep had been delightful since the King had departed for Harrenhal. She’d waved Jaime goodbye after a night spent hidden away in her chamber and then she was essentially free to rule the place, with no one but her father to answer to.

Certainly not Queen Rhaella. The Queen was a weak woman in body and mind, a pathetic creature barely even qualifying as a woman now. Cersei despised weakness in anyone and she thought of the Queen with nothing but contempt.

So Cersei spent her days dreaming about being Queen herself - as the old crone Maggy the Frog once told her - and acting it out as best she could under the circumstances. Melessa, Delena and Mariya followed obediently, chattering on cue and listening intently when she spoke.

It was a glorious time to be Cersei Lannister… until Jaime returned, not in a cloak of gold and red, but in shining white.

‘Jaime! You are come back to me!’ Only political expedience and necessary propriety and being Queen to King Rhaegar kept her from embracing her brother as she wanted to.

Jaime leapt from his horse and landed gracefully on his feet just as their Lord father emerged from the Keep.

‘What is going on?’ Tywin spoke with efficiency of language and expression. Only the narrowing of his eyes and the tight grip on the hilt of his sword gave away the true emotions blistering under the surface.

Jaime gave a shallow, almost insolent bow to his father. ‘The King saw fit to name me to his Kingsguard, Father. I am most honoured.’

‘Of course.’

‘Why did the King send you back already?’ Cersei frowned. The Kingsguard had been part of their secret plan, before the King gave his perfect son to the bitch of the North, but now it was a bitter turn of events. ‘Before you could even joust?’

Only now did Jaime give away any kind of discontent, and she would have flayed the King for marring his beautiful face so, however temporarily.

He sent his horse off to the stables with a boy and his belongings to the White Sword Tower with a steward. ‘He has honoured me with the safety of the Queen and his youngest son while he is so far away.’

‘What an honour,’ Cersei bit out. He had murmured his desires to her in the dark of night: the tourney and his wish to try his skills against the likes of the Sword of the Morning. He had been _so sure_ of glory.

Jaime bowed low to her with far more respect than he had for his father. ‘I must go to the Queen now, sister.’

He strode away and Cersei seethed. Soon _she_ would be the Queen - she had been promised!

 

*

 

Ravens descended upon King’s Landing as a single black cloud after the Tourney. The news first was wonderful: Prince Rhaegar was victorious! It was nothing to Cersei that he named his wife as Queen of Love & Beauty - it was expected! It was easy to smile prettily and praise his gallantry.

Shortly after that, another set of ravens, this time with news fit to stir the entire city: the Princess was expecting a child!

Cersei heard the news sat with her ladies in the Maidenvault cloister, eating blood oranges from Dorne and exchanging the latest gossip when the juiciest of morsels arrived courtesy of a serving girl who couldn’t keep her mouth shut.

The other ladies cooed and sighed, then feverishly debated the chances of a boy or girl, then of possible names and anything else that they could possibly think of relating to a pregnancy so completely unknown to them.

Cersei cracked a crystal goblet in her tight grip, and hoped nobody noticed how it leaked, nor how she did not say a word.

The Stark girl had a dragon in her belly and nothing was right with the world. Cersei had never felt so much like hurting something. Not even when thinking of her deformed brother, her mother’s murderer, did she feel so much like taking a head.

She was supposed to be Queen! She was meant to be for Rhaegar! Ever had it been thus. Elia Martell had been a problem, but Lyanna Stark was starting to look like a conundrum.

 

*

 

Cersei joined her father on the steps of the castle to greet the King and his party on their return. The King’s wheelhouse was first through the gates, followed closely by a second carrying the Princess and her ladies.

The Stark girl was first out, not even waiting for someone to help her down.

‘Thank the gods, we’re here!’ she called out with a laugh in her voice as Selyse Florent and Denyse Hightower were assisted out after her.

Her dress was unspeakably ugly: plain, drab grey, high-necked and trimmed in red. Wool! What true princess wore wool?

Prince Rhaegar rode in on an unfamiliar black horse, flanked by Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Oswell Whent. By the Seven, how beautiful he was! His seat was fine, the tip of his chin just _so_ and his lovely silver-blond hair was tied into a neat braid that flowed down his back, a sharp contrast to the gleaming black armour and a complement to the rubies set into the chest plate.

Most of all, Cersei’s breath was taken from her by the blinding smile that spread across the Prince’s face as he arrived home.

‘Oh, Vhagar!’ Lyanna Stark approached the horse and stroked its nose. ‘Thank you for not throwing him off, old friend.’

‘Ser Willem!’ Prince Rhaegar called out. ‘Have someone see to my horse as soon as you can. Lost a shoe before Hayford.’

That explained the change in horse, at least, but Cersei watched with jealousy rising like bile in her throat, as Rhaegar dismounted the black horse and joined his wife. One arm went around her waist and the other to the horse’s neck.

Cersei then watched as - in front of everyone! - Rhaegar leaned down and kissed the Stark girl firmly on the lips. In front of everyone! She wasn’t sure whether she should be more alarmed that her prince could be so brazen or that the girl had clearly led him to it. It was surely the girl’s fault! When married to Elia Martell, Rhaegar had _never_ done anything of the sort!

Yet, a warmth pooled in her belly at the thought of Rhaegar, _her_ prince, being so brazen with _her_. When she was Queen, she might allow a little public affection. It would do everyone else good to see that he was _hers_.

‘Lady Cersei.’

She was startled from her daydream to find Ser Arthur Dayne looking up at her.

She curtsied slightly to him. ‘Ser Arthur.’

‘Lady Cersei, the Princess has invited all the other young ladies at court to join her at lunch tomorrow.’

‘That would be lovely.’ She managed to sound sincere, but Ser Arthur gave her that distrusting _look_ that all the Dornish seemed to know, before returning to the Prince and his second wife.

Ugh! She saw now that Lyanna Stark was beginning to show signs of her pregnancy. Just enough. If she didn’t insist on wearing such old fashioned, frumpy gowns, there would be no sign! She was gloating, Cersei was sure of it. If only there was a way to stop the Northern wolf bitch in her stride.

What was there? Had Lyanna been in King’s Landing previously there might have been the question of surreptitious moon tea, but it was too late for that. Any miscarriage would have to be spontaneous or violent, and a push down the stairs would lead to far too many questions.

Hopefully, something would go terribly wrong, so that it could go right for Cersei.

Yet, before she could even begin to properly scheme, and after only that one lunch in which the temporary princess held court over all the young ladies almost certainly to show off how _she_ had the Prince’s child in her belly, the Dragonstone Targaryens were off again!

Determined to make some mark, Cersei “accidentally” encountered Prince Rhaegar as he was on his way from the Royal Apartments to dinner the night before his departure. He was distracted and carried a small grey bundle, but bowed when he saw her and offered to escort her.

‘I cannot understand what you see in Dragonstone, Your Grace.’

Rhaegar chuckled softly, which enraged her further. ‘I like Dragonstone very much. My wife and I have spent many, many happy days and nights there. It is our home. We are not for Dragonstone this time.’

‘Oh?’

‘We are to travel further south. Her Grace wishes to see something of those lands before our child is born.’

‘Anywhere in particular, Your Grace?’

His smile faded a little, and she kicked herself for being so obvious. ‘We will be stopping at Summerhall, I’m sure.’

 _Summerhall_. Everyone knew that Prince Rhaegar had some special fascination with those charred rocks. ‘That sounds lovely. I have always wanted to see it myself.’

He _did_ scowl then. ‘It is not a place most people can appreciate.’

‘I am not most people.’

He smiled at her! ‘Of that, Lady Cersei, I am sure. Here we are, and just in time to eat.’

Yet, for all the progress Cersei felt she’d made in that one short conversation, she could not fail to notice how he left her as soon as he could, nor that the grey bundle turned out to be a shawl that he placed on his latest wife’s shoulders with a lingering contact that once again, made jealousy rise in Cersei’s breast like a sickness.

 

*

 

Rhaella II

 

The Queen greeted her returned husband with her usual quiet affection and watched him retreat to his private rooms without even acknowledging Viserys. The King was eager to learn all the scheming that had gone on in his absence, which left her to reunite with her son and good-daughter in fond sweetness and invite them to take tea with her.

Once settled in her sitting, room, Rhaella watched them closely. She had not seen them together in well over a year, since they were newly-married strangers. Lyanna had barely been out of childhood and although polite, even friendly at times, she had been uncertain and hardly trusting herself to relax. Most of all, the Prince and she had not been all a husband and wife should be to each other.

As much as she liked Lyanna, Rhaella had feared for her eldest son’s happiness after they were married.

‘Help yourselves to food,’ she told them. ‘I let the servants go for now. You must be tired after that journey.’

She watched Rhaegar and Lyanna work in unison to fill their plates. Lyanna flicked segments of oranges onto Rhaegar’s plate, while Rhaegar spooned honeyed apricots onto hers and she buttered two slices of bread for them both as he poured tea for all three of them.

Those miniature tasks undertaken and completed, she watched closer. Last time Lyanna had visited here, she had sat at the end of the sofa, right on the edge with her spine straight and her hands folded in her lap. Now, Rhaegar stretched out across it as he always had, ever since he was a child. Lyanna paused, plate in hand and nowhere to sit - unless she wanted to sit across the room on her own.

Rhaella was about to speak up when she realised it would be far more enlightening to watch. Rhaegar looked up at his wife and smirked.

‘What a husband I have, Your Grace,’ Lyanna addressed Rhaella. ‘Who won’t even let his pregnant wife sit down.’

Rhaegar’s response was merely the cheekiest smile in his arsenal. It was seldom seen by anyone, and usually only in this very room, where Rhaegar felt he could be himself, as if he were still a child at his mother’s knee.

‘I’ve been riding all day. You were comfortable in a wheelhouse.’

Lyanna put her plate down on the table, took a scarlet pillow in hand and baffled Rhaegar around the head with it.

‘See, Mother?’ he asked, delight apparent. ‘See how this wife of mine treats me?’

Cushion met head again and Rhaella watched her son capture Lyanna’s arms, then pull her down onto the sofa with him. Lyanna’s shriek was hardly ladylike, but Rhaella could not help but laugh out loud. Lyanna righted herself soon enough, but not before Rhaegar captured a kiss against the back of her neck - one his mother was not supposed to see.

By the Mother herself, it warmed Rhaella weary heart immeasurably to see them to silly.

‘Behave, Your Grace!’ The words were sharply delivered, but without malice or sincerity. ‘Your mother must think I am a dreadful influence on you.’

They sat properly then, side by side as sofas intended, although Rhaegar kept his leg pressed against his wife’s and had an arm slung around her shoulders, apparently unable or unwilling to be completely parted from her for any measurable length of time.

‘You are well, then?’ Rhaella asked.

‘We are indeed,’ he replied. ‘But you, Mother. How are you?’

‘I am well. It has been a pleasant few weeks, despite your dear father’s absence.’

Meaning was understood. They drifted into small talk then, and Rhaella asked to hear every detail about the tourney and her darling son’s fine victory. She tried not to stare at Lyanna’s little bump, or the way Rhaegar kept tugging gently on Lyanna’s hair, or earlobe, or squeezing her shoulder, or any of the dozen tiny gestures he himself likely did not notice.

They stayed an hour before retiring to their own chambers. When the door was closed and she heard footsteps retreat, Rhaella burst into tears. Her handmaiden found her weeping in her chair and rushed to her side.

‘These are happy tears,’ The Queen assured her. ‘I am the happiest I have ever been.’

‘Why so, Your Grace?’ Malinde handed the Queen a handkerchief.

‘My son is truly, truly in love.’

The maid smiled knowingly. ‘That’s the gossip from the tourney, Your Grace.’

‘He truly is. I have seen it.’

“I can die content” went unsaid.

 

*

 

They were not in King’s Landing long before leaving for Summerhall, but she was reassured that their visit with her was no fluke. Lyanna was still clearly no particular fan of Court, but she was more at ease, and gave no real objection to a feast the night before they left.

‘It’s rather improper, don’t you think?’ Melessa Florent was clearly trying to curry favour with Cersei Lannister as the poisonous little group of young ladies sat together after the meal, watching the occupants of the High Table.

The Queen had left that very space to greet the King’s guests from the Iron Bank, and now was unseen as she passed close by.

Rhaegar and Lyanna were sat close together, talking softly to each other with little regard for anyone else, and this was no doubt the inspiration for Melessa’s remark. Rhaella waited to hear Cersei’s response: the Queen in her wanted to accuse Cersei of treason; the mother wanted to set her down for disrespecting her children; the politician in her remained quiet and hidden from their view, waiting for the young lioness to damn herself from her own mouth.

She was not to wait long or be disappointed.

‘It is clear that Lyanna Stark’s effect on our prince has not been a pleasing one. The Rhaegar I know would never allow any woman to paw at him so. It is unbecoming of a king. I suppose we must pity the girl, who was clearly not taught the proper womanly arts in the wild North. Yes, pity seems the proper response.’

Cersei laughed gaily, as though she had found the perfect punchline to the ultimate joke.

Delena opened her mouth to respond, but no sound issued as the Queen appeared behind Cersei.

The ladies all curtsied with alacrity although Rhaella could feel the insolence of Lannister, having seen it for years in Tywin and Joanna before that.

‘Becoming of a King?’ she repeated, voice no more than a soft whisper on a gentle breeze. ‘Would you name my son King before his time, my lady?’

Cersei blanched as white as sheets left too long to dry in the sun. She respected the King not at all, but feared him - as well she should.

‘Nay, Your Grace. I spoke only of a general quality of comportment rarely seen in the lower orders and the barbarous North.’

Rhaella’s smile stayed fixedly vague. ‘I see. The womanly arts - of which do you speak? My beloved good-Daughter does not wear dresses that expose more than they ought-’

Cersei flushed as Rhaella briefly glanced at her heaving, creamy bosom. The Queen was not finished: ‘She is friend to the people; kind to those in need; she dearly loves my son. I am unsure which womanly arts, Lady Cersei.’

‘Serenity, Your Grace. The unassuming, nurturing ways of the Mother, of caring for one’s husband first and above all.’

‘Ah.’ Inwardly, Rhaella rejoiced. ‘It seems dear Lyanna excels there, for she carries our new dragon and seems to have little attention for anyone other than my son. Certainly, they seem to delight in their shared company.’

As if on cue, Rhaegar laughed loud enough to be heard across the way. It was a full-throated example, wholly spontaneous, entirely sincere and without any malice. Lyanna looked as surprised as Rhaella felt to hear such a laugh from him in public, but soon joined him. When he was re-composed, Lyanna wiped his humorous tears away with her thumb, which he then captured in his hands. He spoke, and she blushed prettily.

Melessa and Delena sighed openly, Cersei managed to seethe prettily and was clearly waiting for the Queen to cease her attentions so that she might do so more vocally. Rhaella engaged the ladies in conversation a little longer.

 

*

 

Jaime I

 

Jaime loved and hated being in the Kingsguard. He had been saved from an unwanted marriage - and any married was unwanted unless by miracle he could wed Cersei - yet he was completely beholden to his vows.

He liked his plain and simple living quarters in the White Sword Tower, and he respected each of his new brothers, but to be denied freedom of movement or thought was excruciating.

Training with the other white cloaks was a revelation to a boy who believed he knew it all, but guarding the Queen was no fun given that she hardly left her rooms if not required.

He would never forgive King Aerys for removing him from competition at Harrenhal. He would’ve won, he was sure. If not, he could have at least been the one to knock Brandon Stark on his arse, as some small consolation for Cersei.

He was smart enough - in self-preservation if not reading - to stand guard loyally, and nobody knew how much he hated the King. Not even Cersei.

‘Ser Jaime?’ Queen Rhaella’s soft, sweet voice interrupted his dark thoughts as he stood at her door. ‘Prince Viserys and I would like to visit my son and his daughter before they leave.’

‘Of course, Your Grace.’

He accompanied the Queen and second prince to the Prince of Dragonstone’s chambers, which were in total disarray.

Princess Lyanna’s uglier lady, the one with the ears, explained: ‘Her Grace is unwell.’

Prince Rhaegar was pacing the room like a caged beast, ready to start a war if deeded.

Quite why a scrap of girl like Lyanna Stark deserved such devotion, Jaime knew not. She was nothing to Cersei - nobody was - and while Jaime was personally glad she remained unmarried, he could not account for the King choosing both Elia Martell _and_ Lyanna Stark over his sister.

Except of course, that the King was mad, which explained all sorts of things.

‘Whatever is wrong?’ the Queen was all concern, and Jaime liked how sincere she always seemed to be.

‘She’s been violently ill since not long after the final toast last night. Someone put something in her goblet.’

Jaime’s entire being sank. That was just asking for trouble! If anyone poisoned Cersei, he’d hunt them down and-

‘If any harm comes to my wife or child, there will be more than seven hells to pay.’ Rhaegar spoke quietly as always but powerful danger emanated from him like a lightning storm as it gathered its power. He crackled with tension, and Jaime noticed the hand that never left the hilt of his sword.

Jaime watched as the Queen brought the Prince down from his high pedestal of righteous anger with soothing reassurances and consolations, but nothing helped as much as Princess Lyanna’s emergence from the bathroom.

Jaime admired her tenacity, if nothing else. She was shaky, waxy and clearly weakened by hours of expelling who-knew-what, but her eyes were alive with icy displeasure.

‘My love-’ Rhaegar rushed to her, and Jaime saw how nothing else existed for the prince for the moment, until he had his wife comfortable in a chair.

‘I’ll be all right. Benjen did something like this once. Yet, whoever did this-’

‘Varys says it was the serving girl Eiren. She is in the cells now.’

Jaime’s entire being sank anew. Eiren was one of Cersei’s minions. Had his sister really poisoned the princess? That was a risky, extreme move, to say the least.

Watching the Silver Prince and his dark wife, Jaime felt a sting of envy. He would never be able to be as affectionately sweet with his love, who was not as kind or considerate as either of them. He didn’t see why, but Jaime did see that the Prince had definitively fallen in love with his wife.

‘We’ll leave tomorrow, or the day after-’ Rhaegar was interrupted by that same wife.

‘No, we can leave today. You’re going to coop me up in the wheelhouse anyway. I want to get out of this city as soon as we possibly can.’

Her wish was granted of course, and it was not long before Jaime was the Queen’s Shadow in the courtyard.

Prince Rhaegar bid his mother a fond farewell and Jaime envied him anew: he missed his own mother dearly still, and he was the only Lannister who didn’t balm Tyrion for her death.

He would write to Tyrion tonight - the boy wouldn’t notice his poor writing. Not yet, at least.

Rhaegar and the Kingsguard brothers Arthur and Oswell rode away, and Jaime wished he was going too.

The Queen waited until the wheelhouse was out of the gates and Prince Viserys had grown bored of waving. ‘I shall retire now, Ser Jaime.’

‘Of course, Your Grace.’

What a life. He would have to find something interesting for Tyrion’s letter.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm now almost caught up with things that are already written, and while I hope to update again very soon, it might not be as quick as the last few chapters!
> 
> You asked for Cersei, I give ye Cersei... and Rhaella and Jaime. I've tried writing differently for their voices, of course, which is always fun.
> 
> Comments welcome!


	25. Telling Tales

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay (still nothing compared to the more-than-a-year between updates in another fandom!) Christmastime should give me a chance to get all my scribblings typed up and fleshed out to the next chapter.
> 
> I just wanted to thank everyone who is reading, subscribing, kudosing and commenting. While it would be tremendous to get lots and lots of comments, I'm gratified to think that people are reading and hopefully enjoying this particular story!
> 
> A nice quiet chapter for you now...

Arthur III

 

Arthur’s eyebrows had been permanently furrowed since Princess Lyanna’s poisoning. His mind had not stopped turning over every moment in the time line of events.

The ease with which the poisoning had occurred simply terrified him. The event itself had only been an indisposition, but it only needed to be sweetsleep or the Tears of Lys instead: it only needed to be her husband instead, and then what?

The death of Prince Rhaegar did not bear thinking about, yet it was Ser Arthur Dayne’s sworn duty to do so. Rhaegar was his best friend and Arthur would mourn personally, but there was so much more to it than that. What would the _realm_ do if they lost their prince and the hope of his future? Gods… no, it did not bear thinking about.

At Lyanna’s own firm urging, they had set off almost as soon as she was able to stand upright again. She refused to let them stop until nightfall, citing their insistence she ride in a wheelhouse meant she would hardly be troubled by travel.

The Princess rode in the smallest, fastest wheelhouse available, large enough for two at most, but it was little consolation to such a horse rider as she. Ser Oswell drove it with a high quality carthorse and her own Vhagar bringing her along. The wheelhouse also carried enough supplies - food, clothing, weaponry and other necessities - for a considerable length of time.

‘What has you so troubled?’

Arthur turned towards the voice: Rhaegar. The Prince’s seat was fine but his brows were as furrowed as Arthur’s own.

‘The usual, Your Grace.’

They had made it through the Kingswood without incident and he should have found a sense of peace by now, but no…

‘There’s nobody to hear us, Arthur. Speak plainly.’

‘The poisoning, Rhaegar! What else, other than your pregnant wife being poisoned under _my_ nose?’

‘I know.’ Rhaegar’s entire body trembled with a fury that he fought hard to keep in check. If he’d been a real dragon smoke would have issued from his nostrils and his barbed tail would’ve whipped around behind him. ‘Part of me wishes my father burnt the serving girl, but no! She was carrying out orders and the issuer of those orders interests me far more.’

‘If it could happen once-’

‘Don’t think it doesn’t keep me awake at night, Arthur.’

‘I know it does.’

They had been sleeping under the stars around a fire each night, and Arthur was well aware that only Oswell and Lyanna had had any measure of good sleep.

‘I know it does,’ he repeated, ‘and I wish I could reassure you but… what can we do?’

Rhaegar’s lip curled into a despairing sneer directed at the unknown and unseen figures who would see his wife hurt. ‘Other than ensure nobody _wants_ to poison my wife?’

‘Quite. You’d have more chance of stopping the tides than stopping power-grabs and palace intrigues. That is what makes me so afraid.’

‘We will be vigilant, of course.’

Rhaegar let out a long, almost melodic sigh. ‘I am so glad we are away from there. If I could keep Lyanna away from King’s Landing I would, at least until after the babe is born. But my father…’

‘Ah.’ It was _always, always_ something to do with Aerys. Arthur could not remember a time when all the world did not turn on his whim. ‘Summerhall will soothe you, my friend.’

‘I hope so. I hope Lyanna likes it there.’

‘Have you told her about the prophecy yet? All of it?’

‘I will.’

‘You are running out of time, my friend. She will be angry enough. Better now than after the child arrives.’

‘I know.’

‘So when?’

‘At Summerhall. I will. I must.’

They continued on their way, slower than any of them would like, and Summerhall grew closer with every yard.

 

*

Rhaegar XI

 

Rhaegar could not miss how Lyanna cringed every time she was forced back into the little wheelhouse. So, once they were away from King’s Landing and out of the still-oft-unsafe Kingswood, Vhagar was saddled for her and she escaped her little wooden cell.

‘Please be careful,’ Rhaegar tried to keep fear out of the words, but it was there just the same. How much he wanted to let her be free and yet how afraid he was that harm might come to her, or the unborn dragon.

He could not forget how ill she had become simply because someone had seen fit to make her so. To see her so ill had awoken feelings in him that he had done his best to stamp out when he was a boy. The dragon inside him stirred with lust, true, but once that part of him had been most concerned with vengeance. The little princeling he’d once been had sworn justice for his mother a thousand times, and a thousand times again. He had become a warrior as much for Rhaella as for the belief he might be the Promised One, in truth, yet had been required to rein in, shackle and finally overpower that part of himself. It was a terrible thing for a boy to be so fearful of his father for his mother’s sake. Now as a grown man, he saved the greater share of blame for his own shoulders: he should never have been persuaded. He should have-

‘We will stop here awhile, Your Grace.’ Oswell’s voice cut through his bleak thoughts. ‘Princess Lyanna has asked us to pause.’

Rhaegar busied himself with helping Lyanna dismount, then distracted himself with her conversation, but no sooner was he back on his horse that the darkness returned.

The angry dragon had been awoken at sight of Lyanna bent over emptying her stomach until sweat ran down her face and her entire body shook. He had wanted to send the guards out to hunt down whoever had done this to her, he had wanted to _burn_ the perpetrators, had wanted to see them suffer agonies unknown to any living creature.

Was this how Aerys the Vicious had started? Surely not, for Rhaegar was driven by love and that was surely an unknown emotion for his king-father. The difference between them would always be that Aerys had no true sense of proportion or justice; Rhaegar had excesses of them both.

Hopefully Ser Gerold would find out who had truly been behind the poisoning. No serving girl like Eiren acted alone in such matters… but _who_ and _why_? His mind went around and around without conclusion.

He was stirred away from these thoughts by Arthur, who asked some tactful questions about Summerhall and his intentions, and was comforted at least to know that his friend would not shirk or stint in his duties to protect Lyanna.

Arthur had always been cautious and made it his job to consider the very worst of all outcomes as they became possible - it made him the best Kingsguard Rhaegar had ever seen, excepting _possibly_ Barristan the Bold. Rhaegar had been putting on a brave, unconcerned face for his wife, but in truth he was just as scared. He valued his own life, but Lyanna’s more. His investment in Lyanna lay beyond the political or dynastic. She was to herald the Prince - _his_ Prince - That Was Promised.

It hurt more than he could put into words that he was not himself the Prince of legend. He had been so _sure_ for such a long time, but for the Prince to be of his line, for himself to help the Prince become who he would be? That seemed a far greater prize in some ways, or perhaps that was just his own method of rationalising a painful truth.

The Prince must be brave, so it made perfect sense that his mother too, was a brave woman. His own mother’s bravery was of a different, more subtle colour.

Helping Lyanna mount Vhagar when they resumed travel on the last day before Summerhall, his heart swelled, and the action brought him great pleasure to have been the one to put the bright, broad smile onto her face.

‘I will be careful.’ She hesitated before mounting, but once in the saddle, she was where she belonged and nothing could be wrong.

He could see that her desire to ride hard was tempered by her own new caution, but in the North women often rode when pregnant. Ever since returning to the saddle, she had kept to his own pace rather than her own, keeping Vhagar under close regulation. The horse occasionally strained to go faster yet seemed to understand why he could not.

‘Arya Flint was on a horse when my Aunt Branda started to arrive,’ Lyanna said now, not for the first time. ‘We’re made tougher in the North. We have to be.’

They rode in happy quiet for a while as their journey began its end, the only sounds from the horses’ hooves and the clatter of the wheelhouse bearing all their provisions. The journey had been easy enough, though Lyanna was clearly not convinced by the weather. They had made good time thanks to the group’s shared willingness to camp and travel light.

Each evening, the quartet had shared stories of their other travels, including stories he had not yet heard about Lyanna’s trip south, at which point the men stopped asking “are you comfortable?” or “are you sure you don’t need another cushion?” quote so often.

It was the most enjoyable journey he’d ever undertaken: a girl he loved and two of his best friends on the way to his favourite place in the world.

‘I am the most fortunate man in the Seven Kingdoms and beyond.’

‘Pardon?’ Lyanna hadn’t heard him, but then, he hadn’t meant to say the words out loud. He felt a slight blush creep onto his face.

‘Oh, nothing. Are you well?’

‘Very. When will we see Summerhall?’

‘Not long now.’

For a moment, Rhaegar had forgotten the many cares that weighed upon his shoulders. They could never be kept away for long.

Yet, as he watched Lyanna, and as his gaze drifted down to the swell of her belly, his concern was not for himself. If all was well, the line was going to continue. He could die tomorrow, but Lyanna and the child _had_ to live.

The alternatives were unthinkable.

A few short hours later, Rhaegar watched his wife as Summerhall finally came into view. He wanted to see her true reaction to the castle, and was not disappointed.

The palace was set in the foothills of the Red Mountains and was visible from the north road from some distance, and Rhaegar bid her look up to the horizon for her first glimpse.

First: surprise at seeing it looming ahead; second, curiosity for what was nearing; third, fascination at its beauty; lastly, distress at the ruination close at hand. A tear slipped from her eye, and she did not move to swipe it away.

‘Oh… it is… it must have been _so very beautiful_.’

The last little distance was covered in silence, and Lyanna hardly broke her gaze.

For his own part, he felt a familiar serenity settle onto his shoulders as he crossed the threshold into the summer palace of his dreams, nightmares and happiest days. As was his custom, Rhaegar intended to camp on the soft grass between the old ballroom and the river below. The bright green grass was springy underfoot, dotted with bright wild flowers. It had once been a landscaped garden where dancers took their rest during grand balls, but had long since grown wild as nature had claimed the palace for its own.

‘Arthur, Oswell, help me make camp.’ He dismounted neatly before helping Lyanna down from her horse.

‘I can manage,’ she grumbled as her feet made gentle contact with the ground.

‘But you don’t have to. Rest a little here. We’ll have you comfortable soon.’

‘Do not do that.’

‘What?’

‘Treat me like crystal.’ She wiped a bead of light sweat from her forehead. ‘I won’t break if I stand up for five minutes or help carry things.’

‘I didn’t mean it like that!’ He sighed. ‘I know you’re tired and it’s far warmer here than you’ve ever been used to. Have some water, perhaps.’

‘None left.’

‘Go and fetch some then,’ he retorted, smile tugging upon his lips.

She bristled, but grinned in return, good mood returning. ‘Then I shall!’

He watched her as she gathered their water skins and walked down towards the river.

‘Sickening really,’ Arthur joked as he and Oswell pitched one of the tents. ‘Never thought Rhaegar Targaryen would fall. Let alone so hard.’

Oswell snickered, Rhaegar rolled his eyes.

‘Do shush, Dayne.’

‘Is that a royal order, _Your Grace_?’

‘If I must.’

‘No, no… but please allow me my little jokes, _Your Grace_. The Kingsguard have precious little else.’

They worked quietly and competently to get their tents up: two, separated by a discreet distance. The crimson canvas shone like fire in the sun. Oswell was expert in assembling the camp’s furniture and given there were only three men, they had their little camp in good order quickly.

Lyanna had helped where they let her, which was not much, though less due to her womanly condition and more due to her lack of experience in such tasks.

They settled down as the sun began to sink in the sky, drinking light mead and eating apples picked fresh from the now-wild Summerhall orchard.

‘What do you see in this place?’ she asked her husband.

‘Peace.’

She regarded him curiously, and he felt something stirring under her gaze that was not quite want and not quite pure. ‘Why bring me?’

‘I wanted you to see it… I wanted to you to…’ he sighed and moved to stand behind her so he could massage the knots he knew riding had helped created in her shoulders and back. ‘One day… I want to recover the wonder of Summerhall one day. It is a special place. I want it for our children. Our second son.’

‘I’m still growing the first!’

‘Yes, I know…’ he laughed softly. ‘This is a special place to me. I wanted you to share that.’

‘It feels like there is magic here. Something of the gods.’

He froze, then his soul grew several sizes, filled with joy. Lyanna _understood_! She _felt it too_! He thanked any gods listening for giving him such a woman to stand beside him.

He had to take a moment to ensure his voice did not crack. ‘Yes, my love.’

‘I haven’t…’ she pushed her hair out of her eyes and he saw that she was affected too: her eyes glistened with tears. ‘I feel something that I realise has been missing since I came south… something. I felt a little in the godswood at Harrenhal, and very much at the Isle of Faces but… not otherwise since leaving Winterfell. An ease, a feeling that I am connected to the world and it is connected to me… That is magic, isn’t it? The power of the old gods.’

Arthur and Oswell made a hasty but discreet exit away to go and- Rhaegar didn't care what excuse they gave! Then, Targaryens were alone.

‘Lyanna… I must tell you…’ He stopped with her shoulders and moved to sit beside her and took her hands in his. ‘I must tell you of the prophecy.’

She sat up straight. ‘The prophecy that haunts you every single day? At last. I had wondered why you would not tell me anything of importance.’

‘I didn’t want you to think… that everything was for the prophecy. Yet… it is of the greatest importance.’

She smiled a little at him. ‘But I know you’re destined for greatness. You don’t need a prophecy to tell you that.’

‘It isn't about me. It is about our child.’

Lyanna’s eyes narrowed and her grip on his hands slackened. ‘What?’

‘I once believed it was about me. I was so sure! I had Ser Willem train me as a warrior so I could take my place as the Prince That Was Promised. As far as my studies have brought me, the prophecy is - or might be - the same as the legends of Azor Ahai from the east. My grandfather was further told that the Prince would issue from his bloodline - it is why he insisted my parents be married as they were.’

‘Who told him that?’

‘A woods witch, many years ago.’

‘And he believed her?’

‘There were other predictions she made that came true. Yet I do not know believe I can be the Prince after all.’

‘Oh. So the Prince… I thought it was _you_! When you were working at Dragonstone, you led me to believe-’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to think-’

‘Think that I was merely a receptacle for your prophetic child? Because I married you believing I was considered merely as a useful womb for the dynasty so I’m not sure there’s much difference.’

‘You are so much more than that to me, Lyanna. Believe that before you believe anything else.’

‘I do believe you, but I am alarmed that you are only telling me the truth now.’

‘I wanted to tell you here, because I believe this is where the magic is strongest.’

Silence a moment. Lyanna nodded, believing that. The air itself seemed to hum with a strange, inexplicable energy.

‘So,’ she said at last. ‘Tell me everything. No lies of omission, Rhaegar. Not now.’

He took a long breath in, held it a moment and released it slowly, with perfect control. It was the best way he knew of keeping his emotions in regulation.

‘There are many strands to the prophecy,’ he began. ‘I have spent years tracking down any number of sources for each strand and even now I cannot be _sure_ of anything. Since the dawn of history, there have been whispers of a terrible danger to the world of men - and women, of course - a danger that threatens our entire existence, that will block the sun from the skies until only darkness remains. There have been instances in the past, of course-’

‘The Long Night-’

‘Yes indeed.’

‘Sorry, I’ll try not to interrupt.’

Rhaegar smiled back at that, knowing his inquisitive girl would fail at that. ‘Once upon a time, Azor Ahai sacrificed his wife Nissa Nissa and became the greatest warrior any world had ever known. I believe that the Prince That Was Promised will be Azor Ahai come to the world anew, although whether a true reincarnation or a match for his power I cannot say. The Prince… he is said to be directly descended from the line of Jaehaerys as I said… and his is the Song of Ice and Fire. I found the reference in ancient writings acquired from Essos and I believe this may be in part why my father set Elia aside and sent for you.’

It was the wrong thing to say and he knew it instantly. Lyanna pulled away from him completely and turned to look away.

‘I don’t want to be a brood mare,’ she whispered. ‘I never did. I wanted to see the world and… I wanted adventures.’

‘I know-’

‘Shut up. I wanted all those things and yet I would’ve been happy to remain at Winterfell for all my days. Yet I was allowed neither when your father demanded I come south. I stood in front of _that man_ and knew the prison I was entering, and that I wasn’t even the first occupant of such a gilded cell! Do you know how it felt to be a replacement? Gods, Rhaegar!’ She stood and paced, despite her swollen ankles aching. ‘Everyone heard about your reaction when the King told you! I came south knowing I had wrecked your life-’

‘You did not-’

‘Shush! I did not _want_ this! I wanted the North! I did not want marriage or children, but I swallowed my wants because what woman is allowed such things? I was indulged at Winterfell and given the illusion that I had any right to dreams of my own! I did come south, and I didn’t stamp my feet about it! I tried my best to be a good wife to you and to my complete surprise I found that I loved you more dearly than I could’ve expected to love anyone! I found myself welcoming the notion of having your child! I was _happy_ to set my dreams of adventures aside, not least when I had had my taste of knightly jousting… I was happy and blessed by the gods old and new, I thought. I thought I was the luckiest woman in the world to love and _be loved_ by the Silver Prince! And it’s all because of a prophecy?’

‘No, it is not.’ His voice cut through the tension like Valyrian steel and he stood to meet her and reply. ‘None of _that_ is because of any prophecy. I love you beyond measure, Lyanna. Truly I do.’

He laid his hands gently on her shoulders, ready to pull away if she so much as startled. She did not.

‘I love you,’ he repeated. ‘No prophecy could force that, no prophecy could warm my heart as you do, or rouse my fire as you do. Ours is the song of ice and fire because we choose to make it so. Our son will be the Prince That Was Promised, I know it. But I know it for reasons more powerful than any scribblings by long-dead maesters or the spoutings of strange old women. I know it because you were formed for me as I was formed for you. The gods have blessed me with a brave and strong woman, fierce and bold, and lovely as the moon herself.’

‘And Elia?’ Lyanna asked, ice in her gaze and words. ‘What of that good woman?’

‘She is a good woman. I am fond of her even now, but she was not my wife as you are my wife.’

‘You did _not_ lay with her?’

‘Jealousy becomes you not, Lyanna. She did not capture my heart and soul… I believe you are merely pulling compliments from me now.’

She laughed softly. ‘No…’ She leaned against him and he was reassured by the weight of her head on his shoulder and the tickle of her hair on his skin.

‘Our son is the Prince That Was Promised,’ he said. ‘But I now believe it is the power of our love that will make him so. More than any prophecy could.’

Lyanna’s soft smile in reply was gratifying. It was surely the wonderful magic of Summerhall that cast such gentle light upon her, but whatever the reasons, Rhaegar felt a weight lift from him.

‘One day,’ Rhaegar continued. ‘I will make the Seven Kingdoms greater than ever before. Our son will have a kingdom fit for his greatness.’

‘You are more ambitious than you seem, my love.’

‘Only for our children’s sake.’

‘Children, plural?’

‘Ah, the prophecies also say that the dragon must have three heads.’ He kissed her chastely upon the mouth, then trailed a series of far less innocent kisses along her jaw and down her neck.

‘What does that actually _mean_? Other than a reference to your sigil, it’s not really specific, is it?’

‘Aegon the Conqueror had two sister-wives-’

‘My children will not marry each other, Rhaegar!’

‘No… Aegon the Conqueror had two sisters and they each had a dragon. They conquered the Seven Kingdoms. Our Prince will defeat the ultimate darkness, and must have his fellow dragons by his side… that is one theory. Another holds that we may yet see real dragons return to the world, and that there will be one each for three of Jaehaerys’ line… Targaryen were at their most powerful when they were dragonriders-’

‘And the realm burned for it,’ she returned. ‘Does the destroyed dragonpit not remind you of that, my love? And even-’

‘What? Speak freely, my love.’

‘The realm has not often been well-served by dragons, real or metaphorical. For every Jaehaerys and Alysanne there was Maegor and Aegon the Unworthy, not to mention all those Blackfyres and you-know-who. Your forebears gave us the Great Sept of Baelor, but they also gave us the ruins of Harrenhal and here too. Fire and Blood, Rhaegar… Fire and Blood. I am sorry to say it, and you must know that I am not saying you are the same as them… but the gods flip a coin and the rest of us must bear the consequences.’

He stepped away, unable to meet her steady gaze. She was right. He bore the weight of a thousand-thousand Targaryen crimes as surely as the weight of his crown. He would be better, he _would_ -

‘I know that you will be a great king, Rhaegar. I know it to be true, but you speak of prophecies and dragons, and I cannot help myself from worrying what the future holds. I never thought I would be in this position, you know, being the mother of a future king. At most I thought my father would send me off to some lord in a keep somewhere.’

‘Robert Baratheon?’ Rhaegar could not help but tease.

‘He would not have tolerated me long. That man needs a gentle wife. And a forgiving one. Would that he could marry Ned. They would be happy for all times.’

Rhaegar felt suddenly very tired, his limbs like lead and his eyelids as iron, sliding down over his eyes. The relief of her taking the news with relative ease was greater than he’d expected. Lyanna noticed his change and touched his hand gently.

‘My lord, I think it is time we take our rest.’

‘It is still the middle of the day.’

‘A short rest, then. Will you not come with me, to wake me at the proper time?’

He was so tired that he almost missed the teasing promise in her words. The journey had provided no opportunity for intimacy, after all…

‘A short sleep and then…’

‘And then…’ She smiled and together they went into their temporary home.

 

*


	26. The Visitor

Lyanna XII

Lyanna had never been so _sticky_ in her entire life. Nothing in the crisp cold of the North or the brisk sea chill of Dragonstone could have prepared her for the humidity of Summerhall and the true south.

Not even being tangled up in the sheets of her bed slick with sweat with Rhaegar was like the heat of direct southern sunlight.

She couldn’t yet tell if she loved or hated it. There was something lovely and languid about being so warm in the outdoors with a breeze occasionally brushing against her bare skin.

Her opinion of the weather aside, she knew she loved Summerhall and its magic. All that remained of the palace was sadness and ruin but it was still proud, its majesty not truly lessened by its fate.

It was easy to conjure an image of what the lost pleasure palace must have been: gleaming glass windows reaching up towards the sky, topped by ceilings so long and wide that they seemed to be hung in the sky. Bright white stone walls reached high into the sky; huge colourful mosaics set into the floors of huge, airy rooms; gorgeous statuary and the energy of royals at play.

She fancied she could hear the tinkling sound of court musicians playing for courtiers by day and night: swirling tunes for dancers and sombre accompaniment for official business.

The first night they slept sound in their tent, glad to be in a real bed at last. The next day, Lyanna went ranging around, exploring and daydreaming.

The red gleaming floor of a conservatory were cracked and grass grew up between them, but they looked like the embers of that long-ago fire still clinging to the last of its heat. Dragons rose up from each surface. Some no longer possessed all three heads or tails, but were fearsome dragons just the same.

The flora of the south had reclaimed Summerhall. Bright Spring flowers were coming into bloom, defiantly insisting on life in nooks of the wrecked walls and floors.

Summerhall was civilisation and nature brought together in grieved harmony.

On the second night, Lyanna slept under the stars for the first time in her life and her dreams were full of sparkling light and when she awoke, she had never felt so simply _happy_ for as long as she could remember. Certainly not since Lyarra Stark died…

Her mother used to say that the stars fell the night Lyanna was born and now that same woman stared into the sky, waiting for it to happen again but in the meantime, content to stare at the expanse above.

Rhaegar stirred beside her and shivered under their thin shared blanket. She curled closer to him and, still sleeping, he leaned into her shoulder.

She loved Summerhall so much that she chose to ignore the implications of the prophecy - and her unhappiness at having the details held from her - until another time.

 

*

 

They passed the days quietly and pleasantly. They hunted for fresh meat on a few occasions but otherwise spent their time quietly exploring the grounds and enjoying the freedom of a life unobserved.

It was nearly dusk on their seventh night at Summerhall. Lyanna had just bedded down on a makeshift bed of straw, ferns and furs, when a figure appeared at the opposite side of their camp and moved towards the fire without invitation or other fanfare.

‘Rhaegar!’ she yelped, more surprised than scared, for the figure was small, wizened and did not outwardly appear threatening.

Rhaegar leapt up from his place by the fire and put himself between Lyanna and the mystery guest. Sers Arthur and Oswell appeared, but the prince waved them away and bid them a quick goodnight.

The guest was a woman, as ancient as Old Nan: a shock of white hair hid much of the old woman’s face. Resting upon that white hair was a crown of spring flowers, which itself was wilting a little.

Rhaegar bowed to the woman, almost the last thing she expected of him.

‘Good evening, Jenny.’

‘ _Jenny_?’ Lyanna whispered, more to herself than directed to anyone else. Could it possibly be? Surely not, for surely the only Jenny Lyanna could think of was long dead?

Rhaegar took Jenny’s hand in his own and kissed it fondly. ‘Jenny, this is my wife, Lyanna. Lyanna, this is my aunt. Jenny.’

‘Oh. _Oh_.’ Oh indeed: Jenny of Oldstones!

Rhaegar fetched Jenny a chair from their tent - Lyanna could not think of any time he had _fetched_ anything for anyone other than herself or his mother.

“Jenny” settled herself in the chair near the fire. Her back was bent as though she had carried a great weight for many years. Her sun-bronzed face was lined and wrinkled like ancient parchment. Her clothes looked as old as she was, and though plain, simple garments they were neat and clean.

Lyanna could not help but stare impolitely. How could this be the same woman of whom at least 20 songs had been written? How could a Prince give up a Kingdom for her?

Yet Lyanna herself was no great beauty and she knew Rhaegar would do the same for her. Or would he? That was a question she hoped need never be answered.

‘You are Lyanna Stark,’ Jenny said, voice deepened by age but stronger than her appearance indicated. ‘You bring my dearest boy much joy. I can see it.’

‘What brings you here, Aunt Jenny?’ Rhaegar asked, now settled between Lyanna and Jenny, his long legs stretched out and his bare feet warmed by the flames.

‘You are here, my young prince,’ she replied, patting his arm with all the fondness of a great aunt. ‘And your dear wife. Is that not reason enough?’

‘But Jenny, _here_? You have not- you have not been _here_ since…’ He hardly needed to speak the words, so did not.

Jenny’s rheumy eyes shone strangely in the moon and fire light. ‘It has been long enough. Crossing the threshold did not have the power over me that I thought it would.’

Lyanna watched them curiously, how fond and close they were, yet he had never spoken of _knowing_ Jenny of Oldstones - not even when singing her song! She knew that he was the secret composer of the new and wildly popular version, and here was Jenny herself! It was all just a bit too much to take in.

‘Let me look at you, child,’ said Jenny, turning her attention to her nephew’s wife. ‘You are very pretty.’

‘Thank you.’ For all the pretty compliments tossed her way since her marriage, Lyanna could not believe it. Even when Rhaegar spoke of his attraction to her, she could not quite believe it without doubt. Only when- she stopped those thoughts and turned herself back to Jenny.

Jenny smiled at her then, having quite understood what went through Lyanna’s mind. ‘It is not your beauty that makes you powerful. And you are that.’

Lyanna grew cool then hot under Jenny’s fixed gaze, but would not look away. Instead she considered this old lady closely in the fire’s golden light. Jenny was scarred across one side of her face and neck. No, not scarred: burned.

‘You were here that night!’ Lyanna blurted before she could stop herself.

‘Yes… but I did not die. Better that I had-’

‘That’s not true!’ Rhaegar interrupted.

Jenny ignored him. ‘And almost everyone believes I did die that night. I was saved - if you can call it that - by this one here.’

‘How so?’

‘Someone had to get the baby and his mother out once Duncan the Tall fell. My Dunk- they were all gone already.’

‘Where was the King? King Aerys I mean.’

‘I never knew. Ser Duncan handed me Rhaegar - still bloody from the birth - and carried Princess Rhaella out before returning to save the others. King Aegon never wished me harm, not really, though he would’ve picked a more politically advantageous wife than me for his son.’

Scores of “what-ifs” flooded Lyanna’s mind that moment: The Prince of Dragonflies as King; Summerhall unburnt; no Aerys II; dead infant Rhaegar, burnt before breathing; dragons flying again; dragon-wars again; Lyanna squeezed her eyes shut to block them, to no effect.

‘All happened as it was meant,’ Jenny must have guessed her train of thought. ‘I didn’t know it then, but this one is destined to be King. A very great one.’

Lyanna was uncertain whether Jenny meant Rhaegar or the unborn child, or both. She dared not ask.

‘Sing a song, Rhaegar, that we might sleep sweetly: your wife, your son and I.’

‘What song?’ Rhaegar looked calm but Lyanna saw how his eyes narrowed then flared at mention of a song.

Jenny chuckled. ‘Anything but “Jenny of bloody Oldstones”!’

Rhaegar sang for Jenny then: an ancient song that Lyanna knew well: it was a song of the North.

‘I found my love in the wild of winter, with blue flowers in her hair,’ he sang.

In the North, it was usually a rowdy tune, played at weddings without its final verse. Rhaegar played it in a more characteristically pretty arrangement on his harp, and he did include the last verse, with its chilling final line:

‘I lost my love in the heart of winter, with blue flowers on her mouth.’

The song had always left Lyanna uncomfortable, but performed by Rhaegar on a single harp late at night at Summerhall with Jenny of Oldstones looking on, Lyanna burst into noisy and unexpected tears.

‘I’ve never heard you sing that,’ said Jenny, partly to give Lyanna a moment.

‘I'm broadening my repertoire. I hadn’t thought it would sadden you so, Lyanna.’

‘It never has before,’ she replied with a sniffle.

‘You didn’t have anything to lose before,’ Jenny replied. ‘You have everything now, so you have everything to lose.’

‘I know.’ Lyanna was furious at herself for such a loss of control. ‘I have my own crown of winter roses now, too.’

Jenny’s look was questioning, confused.

‘My husband,’ Lyanna now grinned, ‘won a tourney for me. He had blue winter roses brought from Winterfell for me. He has reordered his entire world for me.’

‘Mine gave up a kingdom,’ Jenny looked grim. ‘The sacrifice did not make him love me more or less than he already did. You live in an uncertain and dangerous world and will both make many sacrifices to build the world you would make for yourselves. Yet for you both, I believe it will be worth it in the end.’

‘We will have our prince,’ Rhaegar told her.

‘Ah yes, the Prince That Was Promised. Yes, well…’

‘We will have sons and daughters and I will love them all, whatever fate decides for them.’ Lyanna had not exactly meant to throw such a challenge at Rhaegar, but from the ambiguously tortured frown marring his perfect face, she hit a nerve.

‘Yes,’ he said at last, after a silence during which only the crackling fire spoke. ‘I agree with all my heart. Yet we cannot ignore the prophecy.’

‘I do not ask you to.’ She shifted to find a more comfortable position. ‘Only not to value it above all other concerns.’

She kept her eyes on him, so did not miss the way his eyebrows furrowed and his lips thinned before he schooled himself into neutrality. By the look of her, Jenny saw it too.

‘How long will you stay here?’ she asked Rhaegar, to change the subject.

Rhaegar stared into the fire. ‘I am not sure. I only knew that we needed to come.’

‘Summerhall is important.’ Jenny also gazed into the dancing flames. ‘Summerhall gives you what you need.’

Rhaegar’s curious purple gaze now turned on her. ‘What do you mean?’

Jenny yawned. ‘My apologies. I am tired and this place… it is very strange to be back here.’

‘Where have you lived since, Lady Jenny?’ Lyanna asked.

‘Close by. I wanted a quiet life. There was no place at the Targaryen court for me without my Dunk. I was barely tolerated with him stood beside me. Can you imagine what it would be without him? No, I would not have that.’

‘I do not blame you, but have you been lonely?’

‘Dear child, without Duncan I will always be lonely. I live quietly and I will die quietly. The singers may sing of Jenny of Oldstones, but nobody will miss me.’

‘I will,’ Rhaegar whispered.

‘Dear boy…’ Jenny stroked his face gently a moment. ‘You have been so good to me. Now, you should rest.’

‘Are you going?’

‘I will rest tonight with you, before I return home…’ Jenny cast a cautious glance around the ruins, which were rendered only more ominous in the dark ‘May our dreams be sweet.’

 

*

 

Lyanna slept well and awoke far better rested than any other night since learning she was carrying a dragon. Freshly caught fish for breakfast no longer turned her stomach and she tucked in hungrily.

After their breakfast, Jenny bid her a fond farewell. The old lady looked even more ancient and worn in the harsh sunshine of day, and Lyanna did not believe they would meet again.

‘Will you not stay longer?’ Lyanna asked.

‘No.’ Jenny shook her head and her thick white hair fell into her face without her flower crown. ‘I know why Rhaegar likes it here, but I cannot stay here.’

‘We will come to see you on our way back to Dragonstone,’ Rhaegar promised, lifting his aunt into a bear hug that made her chuckle.

‘You’re not going to Dragonstone,’ she said. ‘Your father will want you in King’s Landing for this one’s birth.’

Rhaegar’s eyes narrowed as he scowled. ‘Not if I can help it.’

Jenny left, walking slowly but steadily on her aged legs.

After Jenny's departure, Lyanna and Rhaegar had walked through Summerhall and up towards the mountains. Trees studded the ruddy stone slopes and they paused to take in the view: the southern boundary of the Kingswood in the far North-East; the rich green of the Reach to the North-West. The sun was already fierce as it reached its highest point, and they took shade under a thickly canopied tree.

‘That was Jenny of Oldstones,’ Lyanna said, still bamboozled at meeting a figure of such fame, yet also at meeting someone so dear to her Rhaegar.

 Rhaegar helped Lyanna sit on the soft, springy moss that grew at the base of the tree, and she dabbed at the sweat that formed on her forehead. He joined her on the ground after a moment, and loosened the ties of his tunic.

Lyanna smirked at the sight of his hard chest, the skin burnished by their time on the road and the sun of Summerhall.

‘Jenny is very dear to me,’ he said at last. ‘When I first came here as a boy, I met her. Her cottage is half a day’s walk from here. She has _never_ come into Summerhall itself, not since the fire. She must have… Jenny is attuned to the mysteries of the gods. Nothing would have brought her here except that of the most importance.’

He knelt to press his ear against the dragon-bump and listened a moment, then jumped as the child inside kicked. Lyanna giggled, both at the feeling for herself and the flabbergasted look on his face.

Rhaegar’s broad smile was enough to set her heart racing. ‘Our prince.’

‘Yes, Love.’ She bent over to kiss him.

Instead of the peck she had been intending, Rhaegar captured her into something altogether deeper and longer-lasting. She felt the kiss from tip to toe, the searing heat of dragon fire warming her blood to boiling.

The leaves of the tree rustled and had either been of a mind to pay them any attention, they might have felt the approval of the old gods, venturing further south than they had for a dozen or more generations.


	27. Arriving

Rhaegar XII

 

After weeks of pastoral bliss, they could deny it no longer: it was time to leave. Rhaegar had only ever stayed at Summerhall for a longer time once, long before he had any real duties or responsibilities, and yet he still wished to stay longer. Despite hunting and fishing, their provisions were low and if their calculations were correct, Lyanna was only a couple of moons away from delivering the child.

Riding was out of the question as far as he was concerned - no matter how often she mentioned Arya Flint. Her ankles were swollen and she was always hot.

‘How in the seven kingdoms and beyond do Dornish mothers cope?’ she asked Arthur shortly before they left Summerhall.

It was a particularly hot day for Spring, the kind of day where the sun was so strong that heat filled the air and even the stones seemed to radiate warmth.

Arthur just shrugged. ‘They’re used to it. And they take cooling swims. At least, that’s what my mother did.’

Lyanna had already made a habit of bathing in the river each day but as she grew heavier with the dragon child, her balance was not what it should be, and her husband (ever prone to worrying) was concerned she would slip and hurt herself. So each time, he accompanied her to provide a steady arm in and out of the water.

‘I can do it!’ she snapped as he tried to do just that. ‘I’m not bloody helpless!’

‘Yes, I know-’

‘I’m _sorry_ …’ She wasn’t sleeping well, but wouldn’t admit it, and it was just getting hotter each day.

‘We should return to King’s Landing,’ Rhaegar said, trying to keep the reluctance out of his voice. If he had his way, he’d rebuild Summerhall with his own two hands and never leave.

Lyanna scowled, though not at him. She loved Summerhall herself and clearly did not want to be the one to make the suggestion, or to agree with it.

‘Your father will be expecting us,’ she said, reluctance evident in her posture and the way the words rolled off her tongue. ‘We’ve been here at least a moon longer than intended.’

‘I know, I know.’ Rhaegar sighed. Once she was safely in the water, he pulled off his own tunic and breeches, and joined her in the water.

She swam a little distance and sighed happily. ‘I do not think I have ever been this happy, nor did I ever expect to be.’

‘I agree. I never thought contentment - bliss - was written in my stars. Not… ever.’ He spoke carefully, as ever he did, trying to speak his meaning precisely without using any words which might identify it. Even here, with nobody to hear except the one person he trusted absolutely.

Lyanna understood at least part of it: ‘I’m… I’m sorry for Elia, really I am.’ The spectre of his imprisoned first wife was kept purposely away much of the time, and Rhaegar suspected that for Lyanna’s part, it was out of respect rather than bitterness towards the discarded first wife. ‘But… I am so very happy I am your wife now.’

Rhaegar could not answer that and remain composed. He swam around her, then spluttered as she splashed him. ‘Lyanna!’

Lyanna’s laughter rang out along the river, mingling with the pretty song of birds, the chirping of crickets. And then, they fell silent as a wolf howled.

 

*

 

It was a subdued quartet that departed Summerhall the next morning. Rhaegar and Ser Arthur rode while Ser Oswell once again drove the little wheelhouse with the princess inside. They travelled lighter than the outward journey, the majority of their provisions having been used. Yet they could not travel fast enough for the princess, who wished for the journey to be over as quickly as possible now it was underway.

Rhaegar wished he could make her more comfortable, but she was being dragged along primitive roads in what was little more than a wooden crate on wheels.

When he was king, he would make improvements to the roads throughout the Seven Kingdoms. His father had never much cared for the dull but necessary work of infrastructure, but Rhaegar’s logical mind found it all fascinating. He had such great plans in his mind, hidden from almost everyone. He knew that most would likely never come to fruition, but some surely would.

Someone had to: King’s Landing desperately needed sewerage systems and reliable, safe drinking water. He was already dreading the stench and filth of the city, and they weren’t even at the Kingswood yet.

He simply _had_ to leave his own children a better world than his father was leaving him, yet to do so, he had to wait out the last, terrible years of Aerys’ reign. A sudden, horrified thought: the King was not as old as he appeared. He might yet live to see a score of namedays, at least.

Lyanna did not complain about the journey, but he could see she was uncomfortable and miserable. During rest periods he massaged her shoulders, rubbed her feet, or tried to make her laugh. For the latter, Arthur’s dry wit and Oswell’s clowning were both well suited to her current disposition and between them they could usually raise a smile on her tired face.

Gods, the things women had to go through. He’d never really considered it before, although he remembered all too well the miseries his mother had endured to bring her children into the world. She had been so sick with Viserys, yet had been overjoyed that he had not died in the womb as so many nearly-siblings had.

What kind of unjust world was it where a woman was grateful to be _sick_?

After a few days’ uneventful travel, they arrived at Fawnton: the first building of significance they’d encountered since Summerhall. Somehow, the feel of a real stone floor underfoot and the sight of everyday life was surreal and strange. Not entirely welcome, yet necessary.

Lord and Lady Cafferen were there to greet them, the former all friendly smiles for his regal friend; the latter was a Dornish-looking lady of a motherly sort who Lyanna took to immediately on being introduced.

Lady Cafferen frowned when hearing of their last two months. ‘Dear me! We will make sure you have all the comforts, Your Grace. Living in a tent in your condition-’

‘Oh gods! What the-’ Lyanna cried out as she froze where she stood. ‘The- _oh_. My waters-’

‘Tis too early!’ Rhaegar replied, and he knew that there was terror on his face, yet it did not come close to the petrification that seized him in an instant. ‘It cannot be good-’

‘It’s not so early,’ Arthur cut in smoothly and took charge. ‘Lady Cafferen, have the Maester called immediately. My Lord, call for towels and hot water. We will take the Princess directly to her rooms.’

The Lord and Lady obeyed immediately, themselves not unfamiliar with childbirth and so more than able to assist. Rhaegar and Arthur were left to take Lyanna up the stairs. She gripped her husband’s left hand tightly as the right arm secured her at the waist.

‘I had been feeling some pains,’ Lyanna said, and her voice was uncharacteristically small ‘but I thought it was just that bloody wheelhouse.’

‘All will be well.’ He smiled and kissed her cheek softly in reassurance.

Rhaegar had one arm around her waist and Arthur took her other hand as slowly they walked through Fawnton to the rooms usually given over to the Prince.

Once in the room, Arthur left to check on the Maester. A moment of stillness passed then. He helped Lyanna sit on the bed and removed her boots, then her soaked undergarments.

‘Lie down,’ he instructed softly.

There was nothing soft in her response: ‘Last thing I want to do is lie down!’

‘Very well.’

‘Sorry.’ A few tears escaped and rolled down her face.

‘Don’t be.’ He stroked her hair and kissed her again. ‘All will be well.’

The Maester and maids arrived quickly. It was not so very long since Lord Cafferen’s granddaughter had been born, so they were all prepared and experienced.

The Maester was a relatively young specimen, with smart, observing eyes and grey hair in a ring around his otherwise bald head. ‘Your Grace, it is an honour-’

‘Just do your job, Maester!’

‘Of course.’ The neat little man bowed briefly and gave the maids a couple of instructions. Then, he turned his attention to Lyanna. ‘Your Grace, my name is Luwin. Between us, we will have you safely delivered of your child. Very soon you shall hold that precious babe in your arms.’

Rhaegar immediately began to reassess the Maester as his gentle words soothed Lyanna.

‘Your Grace? Your Grace?’

Rhaegar blinked: Luwin was now talking to him. ‘Yes?’

‘You will prefer to wait with Lord Cafferen, I expect.’

Not at all, but he knew he had no place here. Lyanna was now lying down, although clearly not happy about it. He kissed her again, feeling the heat of her feverish brow. ‘I won’t be far away, my love.’

‘All… will… be well.’ She gritted her teeth against another pain. ‘Go. I don’t want you to see this. If you stay, you’ll never want to touch me again.’

He kissed her full on the lips then, trying to express all he felt. ‘I’ll always want you, Lyanna Stark.’

He strode out quickly, knowing if he stayed longer he’d never leave.

Lord Cafferen and his son were in the small Fawnton library bearing sweet Arbour Gold and reassuring words.

‘This one took a day and a half, yet all was well,’ the Lord said, handing Rhaegar his goblet.

‘Aelinora was nearly two days in coming,’ the young Cafferen said - Rhaegar could not remember his name. He raised his goblet in toast to the Prince.

‘My thanks to you, my lords, for your hospitality and kindness.’

‘You have always been a friend to us,’ Cafferen said. ‘And we are ever friends to you.’

The edge in his tone spoke greater volumes than the words. Even now, as his wife laboured for their child - the promised one! - Rhaegar was brought back to the matter of his father.

Was Lord Cafferen angling now for favour later? Or was he in fact merely being kind to a man experiencing one of the most uncertain periods of his life? Were such questions in fact why his father’s mind had soured? It was all just too much to bear.

‘I shall take some fresh air,’ he announced, and upon going out into the bright sunshine of a lovely spring day, Rhaegar took himself without thought, to the stables.

Vhagar had been given a stall here, and harrumphed at Rhaegar.

‘Hello friend,’ he said, not at all bothered about speaking to a horse. ‘You seem annoyed.’

True: Vhagar whinnied at him again. Did he know somehow, that Lyanna was in labour?

Rhaegar killed some time giving the horse a rub down, chattering to him about nothing all the while. His voice seemed to calm the horse a little, and the task gave him a temporary purpose.

He then walked out through the grounds. Lady Cafferen had laid out very pretty gardens close to the house, while rolling green fields stretched out as far as the eye could see. White fawns, the very animals that gave the house its name, gambolled in the distance, without care or concern for the dragon seeking life at that very moment.

Rhaegar’s inner dragon snarled, his uncertainty and fear feeding the damned thing. He was powerless in a way he never had been before, and the dragon did not approve. He could not bear to be gone any longer, and his feet took back inside and up the stairs once more.

Lyanna’s chamber was somehow calm and chaotic at once. Much was happening, yet all present knew their tasks and their place… and then Rhaegar entered.

Lyanna lay back against the pillow, waxen-faced and sweating, she looked to be in agonies unknown to Rhaegar or any man.

‘Your Grace!’ The Maester was shocked and distracted by the Prince’s sudden reappearance.

‘I only came for a moment. Is all well?’ Rhaegar spoke the words to the Maester but his gaze was upon Lyanna’s face.

‘Yes, Your Grace. All is proceeding as these things do.’

‘I don’t want you to see me like this,’ she told him again.

‘You’ll never be less than beautiful to me.’

‘Thank you, sweet prince. I love you in return. Now, go away.’

‘But-’

She plunged forward then, screaming almost into his face as another contraction hit.

‘You see?’ She sucked breath in hungry. ‘Do you want to see this? Gods, you would never come near me again.’

In response, Rhaegar moved closer still and kissed her again. ‘Never less than beautiful… but I will respect your choice.’

He was left to roam the castle then, a wraith of a man until Lyanna’s screams were silenced and replaced by piercing cries of a different sort.

He would always remember the moment: he was stood at a window gazing out at the fields and hills beyond, the spring sunshine bright and golden warm. A servant appeared shortly, beckoning him to Lyanna’s side.

Arthur was waiting outside the room and grasped his shoulder. ‘Congratulations, old friend!’

‘Thank you…’ He went almost unconsciously into the room.

Lyanna was beyond exhausted: dark circles under her eyes, hair in damp disarray, body limp, yet that smile lit from inside again. In her arms, wrapped in a crimson blanket, was his child.

‘Meet Aegon, beloved.’ Her voice cracked and she yawned, almost on the edge of sleep. ‘For there can be no other name for your first son.’

_Aegon. His son._ The heir- _the_ _prince!_

Lyanna held the warm bundle up to him, and he peeked curiously, nervously into it.

Purple eyes. Targaryen eyes. Lighter than his own. A tuft of silver blond hair.

Aegon clearly looked like him. Perhaps he had something of the long Stark face, but he was unmistakably a dragon and that would surely please the King.

All his joy was doused at thought of Aerys. It should not be such and yet-

‘Don’t think about that.’ Lyanna guessed his thoughts, of course. ‘Just love your son and be happy.’

‘I am.’ He meant it. ‘I love you so much.’

‘And I love you both. Do you mind the competition?’

‘No, never.’

‘Good, because I promise you, my heart has grown beyond measure…’ she yawned and instinctively he took the child from her so that she might rest.

‘He is the prince…’

‘He is _our_ prince,’ Lyanna replied tartly. ‘Prophecies be damned. He is our boy.’

‘Yes, that’s what I meant.’ Rhaegar held the child close to him and felt his warmth. Never ever had he felt such a welling up of devoted, protective love. ‘I promise to care for you until the end of my days.’

Lyanna had already fallen asleep, and Rhaegar took Aegon to the window. The sun warmed them both, and Aegon began to follow his mother into slumber.

‘The Prince…’ Rhaegar frowned. Something was amiss, yet he could not place it. Now was not the time. ‘I will love you forever, my boy.’

He had fought with all his might to avoid loving Lyanna while his father was a danger. Yet now, in this room, he cared not at all. He would take his father on in single combat if it meant keeping his wife and child safe.

He would take on anyone. He felt invincibly strong, yet absolutely powerless, all in one moment.

Aegon blinked and stirred as a drop of water fell into his face. Only then did Rhaegar realise he was weeping.

He knew then that his own father could never have truly loved him. Nobody could feel like _this_ and treat a child as he had. Rhaegar felt no loss for his own part, but disappointment for Aerys. He might have been a different man if he had been able to love his children.

 

*

 

The Targaryen trio made slow progress to King’s Landing. Cafferen sent six of his best men and stores a-plenty for a safe and comfortable journey but even so, the newest Aegon Targaryen was nearly a whole moon old when he arrived at the Red Keep for the very first time.

The Princess’ ladies had been sent for and met them halfway, providing her with assistance and the possibility of rest when she needed it. Rhaegar smiled to see them so dedicated to her, and she so glad of their company after months apart.

Selyse in particular took to Aegon with a fierce loyalty that would one day serve the prince well.

‘Clear the way!’ Ser Arthur Dayne boomed across the crowds that slowed their way through the city. ‘We will not allow the Prince or his mother to be crushed!’

The people slowly moved aside, although their ranks quickly swelled as news of the little prince spread through the city. Kingsguard and goldcloaks together kept the way clear.

Once in the relative safety of the Red Keep’s courtyard, the wheelhouse stopped. Princess Lyanna stepped out first and reached back in to take Aegon from Selyse, who then followed with Denyse.

The Prince of Dragonstone looked every inch a mighty warrior in his black-and-ruby light armour as he walked into the Great Hall with his family. His long blond hair had been pulled into a perfect plait - by his wife no less, but nobody need know that - and the pride of new fatherhood made his back straight and his stride confident.

Aerys and the court had gathered in the Hall for the presentation of the new prince. The King looked yet more sickly than Rhaegar remembered, while his mother looked like she was about to fall off her seat, although her gaze was fixed determinedly upon the swaddled babe in Princess Lyanna’s arms.

‘My king!’ the Prince called out so all might hear. ‘May I present to you your grandson?’

He knelt, the clatter of his armour the only sound as all waited for King Aerys’ response. Princess Lyanna knelt, holding the child up a little.

‘I cannot see from here,’ Aerys rasped. ‘Bring him to me.’

The Prince took the child then, unwilling to inflict proximity to the King on his wife. He bent low so that his father could see the child’s face, his Targaryen face.

‘A dragon prince,’ the King said. His opinion was yet ambiguous. ‘It has taken you long enough, boy.’

‘All in its right time, Father. ‘Such it is with prophecies.’

He spoke deliberately, softly, so Aerys might understand. He did.

‘A dragon prince,’ Aerys said again, this time with a hint of approval. ‘Look upon the might of the Targaryen dynasty!’

The crowd needed no more prompting than that, and all bent the knee as the Prince of Dragonstone turned to present the child to them as his father once had with him, and his father before him, and a dozen Targaryen princes before that. For once, Rhaegar felt the warmth of his family’s legacy instead of its pain. Lyanna looked up and let a slight smile play upon her lips, just for him. Him, and Aegon.

All would be well.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you so much for the comments and kudos so far!
> 
> Hopefully, this chapter has answered some questions as well as raised some new ones...
> 
> Also, if you're interested, I've started writing a SW:TFA related fic because apparently there's a SW fan that's been lying dormant in me for some years.


	28. A Bitter Taste In One's Mouth

Cersei III

 

All who have seen the Prince are charmed by him. He is simply _the most perfect_ prince that has ever been. Except perhaps Rhaegar, the old ladies said. He was truly perfect, that one. Hardly ever even cried…

She stood at the outskirts of a small gathering of the most highborn women in King’s Landing, brought together by Queen Rhaella to celebrate her first grandchild.

Cersei was fairly sure that she has been invited only out of spite and politics, so keeps away from the circle of adoring twittering women that has formed around Lyanna Stark and her son sat on a couch, the Queen beside her.

If the Queen says _one more time_ that the Prince is “simply beautiful!”, Cersei will not be responsible for her actions.

Cersei was sick to even think of the child. She was sick that he did not come from her womb, although she can look spitefully at Lyanna’s thickened middle and compared her own tiny waist to it.

Rhaegar would get bored of his wife soon enough, would find her unappetising soon enough, will look to remove her soon enough. He had done it with the first one, after all… the third time, her aunt had been fond of telling her, was always the charm. Princes had a high mortality rate, did they not? Infanticide was a drastic step, but she would not need it.

Lyanna looked tired, of course, and her robe in Targaryen colours did not help her complexion. Cersei’s informers told her that Lyanna had taken on a good deal of Prince Aegon’s care herself, which was exactly what was expected from the barbaric Northern people. The Prince slept in a cradle in his parents’ rooms much of the time, instead of in the distant nursery where he would be of no bother to anyone.

The matrons in the room had started to share their stories of pregnancy and childbirth, all veiled in euphemism to protect the maidens. Cersei cared not for that. She’d seen her mother die bringing the Imp to life, and nothing could be worse than that.

Until Olenna Tyrell made one of her usual tart remarks, this time regarding the mixture of bodily fluids that made themselves known during labour, and then Cersei wanted to vomit into a vase.

‘Lady Cersei,’ Lyanna called out. ‘You do not look well. Come, sit down with us.’

To Cersei’s increasing horror, Lyanna Stark moved to allow Cersei room to sit next to her. She could hardly refuse without seeming rude and without a suitable excuse not to, she was forced to squeeze onto the sofa with the Queen, Lyanna Stark and the prince child.

‘Is my grandson not very beautiful?’ The Queen asked, tone light but eyes narrow.

‘He certainly is, Your Grace. I would expect no less from House Targaryen.’

‘Oh, but you can hardly see him from there!’ Rhaella replied. ‘Dear Lyanna, can you bear to give Aegon up a moment, that Lady Cersei might hold him?’

‘If you would like.’ Lyanna hesitated, and Cersei felt all her suspicion.

Cersei froze in horror and disgust as the prince was put into her arms. She had no choice but to look down into his admittedly beautiful Targaryen face with his hypnotic purple eyes. She wished in that moment more than ever that _she_ was Rhaegar Targaryen wife and that _she_ was this beautiful boy’s mother.

As if Lyanna Stark could read her thoughts, she took Prince Aegon back and cuddled him close to herself. ‘He will need attending to very soon. My dear royal mother, I would ask your indulgence to-’

‘Oh my dear!’ Queen Rhaella laughed. ‘You must do what you need. Do not stand on ceremony with us.’

Lyanna and her rhyming ladies left then: the big-eared Florent carried the boy while the least interesting Hightower fussed with Lyanna Stark’s dress.

‘How happy she looks,’ Alerie Tyrell sighed softly, the sentimental old woman.

Her mother-in-law’s thorny reply was quick: ‘Well, the novelty has not yet worn off.’

‘Princess Lyanna is happy,’ the Queen replied. ‘Yet, it is almost nothing in comparison to my son. I have never seen him this happy in his entire life.’

‘To have secured the succession must also be reassuring,’ Alerie pressed on, although Olenna harrumphed beside her.

‘It is,’ Rhaella said.

‘And yet can it be truly secure?’ Cersei found herself asking. ‘Anything could happen.’

Silence in the room. Oops.

‘That sounds dangerously close to treason to me,’ The Queen of Thorns is the first to speak. ‘But no Lannister could possibly be that stupid.’

‘No, not at all.’ Cersei affected the most embarrassed expression in her armoury. ‘I merely spoke of caution! Oh, forgive me Your Grace!’

‘Of course, Lady Cersei. Of course.’

Once again, Cersei Lannister despised the Queen even as she saved her skin. ‘I beg you excuse me, Your Grace.’

Cersei barely managed to give Queen Rhaella time to do just that before leaving as quickly as should could, carrying the scraps of her dignity with her.

Despite knowing he had duties as a Kingsguard, she made directly for Jaime’s room in the White Sword Tower, hoping to find him immediately or to wait with her embarrassment and jealousy until he returned.

His room was empty of life and almost empty of things. The sparsely furnished room was a sharp contrast to the luxuries of Casterly Rock and Cersei couldn’t understand how he could stand it. The narrow bed was hard but the sheets were soft. A single small, plain wooden chest of drawers held his now-few belongings. There were a few letters, secured with a small golden ribbon, hidden under his clean small clothes. She flicked through briefly to satisfy herself that they were all from her, then returned them to their hiding place.

The view from the window was unremarkable: the expanse of roofs of the cramped jumble of buildings of the city she despised and detested.

They had been happy at Casterly Rock. Mother’s death had been terrible, but gave them the freedom to be themselves. Joanna had been suspicious of them, after all-

Cersei swallowed a sob. Her mother would’ve understood in the end, and her mother would’ve made sure _Cersei_ married Rhaegar instead of Lyanna _fucking_ Stark or even Elia Martell! She chose in the moment of her self-pity to ignore the truth that Joanna Lannister had been working with the Princess of Dorne to betroth Cersei to Oberyn Martell, and in any case was interrupted by the return of Jaime.

He was clearly surprised to see her but smiled just the same. ‘Sister. You shouldn’t really be here.’

‘I just wanted to see how you were. I see you so seldom now.’

‘My duties keep me busy.’

She scowled. ‘Your _duties_. The King made a grave mistake when he named you to the Kingsguard.’

His green eyes narrowed at her as he removed his white cloak and hung it on a hook on the back of his door. ‘Cersei… behave.’

She stood to meet him physically and wrapped her arms around him. He did not reciprocate.

‘We cannot,’ he whispered. ‘We must not.’

‘Jaime-’ Anger flared.

‘Not _here_. Prince Lewyn is in the next room.’

Cersei relaxed.

‘I will arrange to have dinner with you tomorrow,’ he said, removing pieces of his armour. ‘For now, I simply must sleep. A Kingsguard’s time is not his own, you know. I’m back with the Queen in a few short hours.’

‘You don’t have to explain,’ she snapped. ‘I understand. Your loyalties are with _them_ now.’

‘I did swear an oath-’

‘Oaths! What do they mean when it comes down to it? Everyone will break an oath if it suits them! You are a _Lannister_ , Jaime, and that means something!’

‘I am sworn to protect my King, Cersei.’ Gods, he looked as tired as he sounded, and she hated the King for making her golden angel so.

‘Well, perhaps we need to find you a better King!’

‘Cersei! Hush your mouth!’ Jaime all but clamped his hand over her mouth. They were close again now, enough that she could feel his heart beat through his chest.

‘What does it matter? The moment the Stark bitch married the prince, all my hopes and dreams-’

‘Remember what the crone told you?’ he said, far more gently now, and his grip relaxed into a warm embrace. ‘You will marry a King. You just have to be patient.’

‘I am not accustomed to being patient!’

‘No, well it’s time you learnt.’ Jaime pressed a fraternal kiss to the side of her face and released her. ‘Now, go back to the Maidenvault where you belong.’

Cersei huffed a little, but did so just the same. On returning to her rooms, she found letters from Aunt Genna and her father waiting. The former made her roll her eyes, the latter brought her perfect red lips into a cunning smile.

 

*

 

Selyse II

 

Selyse wished more than anything that they were back on Dragonstone. Life had been freer there, had been gentle and relaxed. She hadn’t had to stay so constantly on her guard.

Her father and his friends had begun to realise that Selyse was not the excellent spy they’d believed she would be when they sent her to the Princess. At least, not for their benefit, and she had been forced to tread carefully ever since.

Yet she found that staying in the Prince & Princess’ apartments was less agonising, and Aegon was there.

Aegon… Selyse could hardly believe that she had fallen so swiftly and decidedly in love with another person. The moment Princess Lyanna had handed her son to Selyse, it seemed to have happened.

Staying in the apartments with her favourite babe was no hardship, but they had been back in King’s Landing for several moons and apparently not returning home any time soon.

‘The King won’t have it,’ Denyse predicted. They were filling the bath for the Princess, and the rushing sound of the water being pumped into the heated bath went some way to concealing their conversation. ‘He wants them close at hand so he can keep an eye on the Prince.’

‘Rhaegar or Aegon?’

‘Both. He suspects his son of conspiring against him.’

‘He suspects everyone of that.’

‘Well of course, but if our Prince were to do so, he would actually stand a good chance.’

‘Shush, Denyse!’

‘It’s all right. Nobody can hear us over the water. I’m less concerned about the King than others, myself. Ever since Lyanna was poisoned-’

‘Yes, indeed.’

They both took turns tasting Lyanna’s food when it was sent directly from the kitchens. Twice Denyse had been confined to the privy and Selyse had been fortunate to smell a bitter almond taste in some soup before trying it.

The Princess had tried to appear unaffected by it, but was not successful; every incident deepened the furrow in Prince Rhaegar’s brow, already severe after every day spent with the King.

King Aerys was undoubtedly mad, but he was not quite beyond comprehension. He was in fact, at precisely the worst point of sadistic insanity and yet functional enough to prevent his removal from the throne.

Had Selyse not seen the impotent pain upon some Kingsguard faces, she might have believed them heartless. They had sworn oaths and to go against that required more than they had - even if the King had begun to order criminals be executed in wildfire.

She knew Prince Rhaegar wanted to run far away, back to Dragonstone where people didn’t try to poison his wife, but he was a man of integrity and honour; a true knight. He would not leave the people of King’s Landing and further afield at the mercy of his father.

If only he - or someone - would just _do something_. Was it so difficult a decision? Such were the dark thoughts that ran through Selyse Florent’s head as she rocked Prince Aegon to sleep in the middle of the night.

‘Selyse, you’re still awake.’

She had not seen Princess Lyanna open the door to her bedchamber, but there she stood, rumpled and tired, and not a little sad.

‘The little prince was fussing, Your Grace.’

‘Surely I am Lyanna in this darkest hour?’

‘If you wish, Your Grace.’

Lyanna rolled her eyes and reached for Aegon. Selyse felt the absence of the child as soon as he was gone from her, but she could hardly begrudge Lyanna her son.

‘You look troubled Selyse. You have for a while now. What ails you? Love?’

‘Oh no, Your Grace!’

‘That’s a shame. Everyone is entitled to at least one great love, I should think.’

‘Easy for you to say.’ The words were out before she could stop herself.

Lyanna simply raised an eyebrow.

‘My apologies, Your Grace. I am tired and-’

‘Do you think I will punish you for speaking your mind? Aren’t we friends, Selyse? No, not for speaking your mind. For doubting me, though…’

‘It’s not you, Your Grace. It’s…’ Selyse could not speak the words but nodded upwards, in the general direction of the King’s chamber.’

Lyanna nodded. ‘Of course. I understand, but you’re still entitled to a great love story at some point.’

‘No Your Grace… what I meant to say: I am not beautiful, as you are beautiful. Men do not look upon me with a smile. They do not even look. I am invisible, you see.’

Lyanna’s mouth formed a silent “o”. She would not understand, although she would try. Lyanna Stark was not a spectacular beauty, with her long face and unruly way, but she was still beautiful in her compelling way. It was the eyes…

‘Well then, we shall have to have a think and decide who will be your great love affair. I have a younger brother, you know.’

Selyse could not help but giggle, and Lyanna’s fond response warmed her. ‘Thank you, Your Grace. I’m sure my father will find me someone suitable.’

The Princess’ snort of derision was answer to _that_ : ‘No, merely suitable won’t do. We’ll find someone worthy of you if we have to sail to Essos to do it.’

Selyse thought of the stories of the exotic beauties and seductive wonders of Lys, Braavos, Myr and the rest… and felt even less likely to find someone who would see her for herself.

‘Sleep, Selyse. I have him. You should sleep.’ Lyanna returned to her room with Aegon.

As Selyse’s eyes closed, she heard the warm rumble of Prince Rhaegar’s laugh from inside the room, followed by a high-pitched squeal from Prince Aegon.

She did not believe a great love affair would be hers, despite her princess’ promise, and she supposed that a life dedicated to raising Prince Aegon would be more than a dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments so far! Just a quick catch up - I was asked to give Cersei's response (or at least, her initial one!) so here you go, with some Selyse to counteract her.
> 
> I've gotten a bit sucked into Star Wars presently (like many folks I know!) and i've been writing fic for that in between this and the original stuff I'm supposed to be concentrating on.


	29. Burning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT NOTE: There's some dark stuff here, as it's the chapter where Aerys executes some children. I have not been graphic but please be aware and choose to read or not as is best for yourself.

Aerys III

 

The King’s Grandson was a source of great joy for all within the Seven Kingdoms. The King was gratified indeed by the groundswell of affection that rose up within the ranks of small-folk and nobility alike.

Gifts of all shapes, sizes and value found their way to the Red Keep. Hoster Tully sent two dozen barrels of best Riverlands fish; The Tyrells opened their granaries to provide the plant-based food for a great feast in honour of the new prince; the Baratheons sent three score cattle from the Stormlands for slaughter. There was nowhere to put sixty head of cattle, so they grazed out in the fields just outside the city walls.

Children from across the Kingdoms sent badly written notes with awful handmade gifts for the little prince, and while Aerys would easily see them all thrown on the fire, he was gladdened to see his noble lords stilled to respectful silence by such demonstrations of the King’s power.

He had always known that the Stark girl was the right choice for his son. No filthy Dornish bitches, nor that scheming Lannister girl who was not a worthy successor to her beautiful, gracious mother. The Stark had also done her duty by providing a son who bore the unmistakable look of the dragon.

Hadn’t he shown them all? Hadn’t he proved the supremacy of the Targaryen line after all? His subjects ought to bow down in gratitude to him.

Why did they persist in their disobedience, their disquiet?

He would have to teach them a lesson.

‘Ser Arthur!’ The knight responded to his beckoning immediately, as any good Kingsguard should. Yet the King felt something amiss, as though the Dayne boy was not devoted to the King with all his heart. ‘You will bring to us the child-thieves who blight our mighty city. This you will do immediately.’

Ser Arthur bowed to him without hesitation or question. ‘Yes, Your Grace.’

Excellent.

 

*

 

The King could hardly miss the ripple of anticipation within the Court. Six hours after his orders, eight children stood before him. The Goldcloaks of the city had done a fine job of rounding up the miscreants. They were all perishingly small, runty children who clearly had no more right to survive than the rats of the sewers for whom the King’s Royal Rat-catcher spent his days destroying.

Now, for the King’s ultimate power to make itself manifest, for Aerys II to once and for all demonstrate the supremacy of the Targaryen Dragons.

‘Rossart!’ he boomed. ‘Come forward.’

The Grand Master of the Alchemists’ Guild stepped forward with a quickness that the King appreciated. ‘Your Grace, I am at your command.’

‘These sewer rats have assaulted the King’s majesty by stealing from our own beloved subjects. There is only one punishment fit for them.’

‘Yes, Your Grace.’

Courtiers stood in perfect, obedient silence as the fire pit was filled with fuel and set to burning. Bright orange flames licked upwards in a hypnotic dance that captured the King’s whole attention for a moment.

The children were herded into the pit, their tears and screams for mercy nothing more than fodder for the King’s glee. He watched their scrawny limbs flail a moment, then Rossart tossed a capsule of wildfire into the fire. The flames surged upwards, the orange turning to green. The children's screams became pure pain and the King took a deep breath in, and smiled.

‘This is the King’s Justice,’ he declared. ‘And the King’s Majesty!’

He did not linger long, for his blood was finally up and his wife had a duty to fulfil.

 

*

 

Lyanna XIII  


 

The Prince and Princess of Dragonstone had been kept away from court that day, in what had initially seemed like an act of kindness. They had been invited to visit with Lord Selwyn Tarth, who had come to King’s Landing to present his young son Galladon to the King, and had also brought his wife Lyara and infant daughter Brienne.

The Hand of the King had made the suggestion, and it had seemed like an easy choice for Rhaegar and Lyanna: Lord Selwyn was a well-respected fellow, and there was no harm in doing the King’s bidding this once.

Lord Selwyn had taken a house on the outskirts of the city, a rambling villa with pleasant gardens, and the two young families had made a pleasant picnic of the day. Galladon was a bright young boy with a promising future - Rhaegar clearly thought he showed promise as a squire in a few years’ time. Young Brienne was only a little older than Aegon, and if anyone was of a mind to consider a betrothal even at this young age, it was not the worst idea in the world - if there were no higher born girls by the time it would matter.

Indeed, Prince Rhaegar and Lord Selwyn found they were of a mind on many points, although Tarth was a far more conservative man than the Prince. All in all, it had been a good day.

 

*

 

Upon returning to the Red Keep, they found it as much in uproar as anyone dared. The cause became quickly apparent: the stench of burning flesh lingered in the air, which itself felt greasy as they entered the Great Hall.

Ser Arthur apprised them of the day’s events as much as he could, and it was obvious that the man was torn apart by his part in it.

‘Had I known that he would burn children?’ Arthur moaned into his hands, able to be honest now that he was in the relative safety of Rhaegar’s rooms.

Lyanna grasped his hands. ‘You can only do so much, Arthur.’

‘I could’ve done more. They were starving children! He does not even see them as human! Better that I had killed them myself. I could’ve made it quick, painless. This… he is beyond even his own depravity. And then, oh-’

He stopped speaking abruptly and would not say another word.

‘What?’ Rhaegar’s voice had little air to it, the single syllable clipped to its barest minimum.

‘You know how he is after an execution. The Queen-’ Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, broke down in tears for the first time since he was six years old. They were tears of absolute despair and self-hatred.

Rhaegar paced the room like a caged hrakkar might, and Lyanna felt her heart break all over again. For the murdered children, for Queen Rhaella, for Rhaegar… and yes, for herself and her son. What world was this that they lived in? In what world could such a mad man hold such absolute power?

It was absurd. Aerys had no strength of his own, in truth. He was aged before his time, decrepit and broken down by himself. He had no notion of the people’s true opinions of him, no perspective or truth about anything.

 

*

 

Once Arthur left, Rhaegar and Lyanna shut themselves away in their bedroom, nobody but Aegon nearby.

Only then did Rhaegar allow himself to break down completely. He roamed the room, brought to the edge of sanity himself by his father’s mad actions.

‘He has gone too far! Burning _children_! Children, Lyanna!’

She wanted to kill the King more than she had ever wished harm on anyone. Aegon snoozed against her shoulder, mercifully unaware of the horrors unfolding around him.

‘The Lords would see it done but will not move! None wishes to be caught out on a limb if the others do not follow! And I! How could I do such a thing? It is an affront to the laws of any gods and the realm! I can’t-’

He collapsed into a chair, head held in his hands as he trembled from tip to toe.

Lyanna had no helpful words for him, so stayed silent. Silent, but thinking fast. Rhaegar would be forgiven by the realm if he killed this king. She wagered even the gods would understand - especially her own old gods.

Rhaegar himself would never forgive itself; Rhaegar The King- and Kin-slayer would never recover _himself_ from such an act.

If he could, he would have killed Aerys the first time he understood what the bruises on Rhaella’s arms meant, and what it meant as a child when his mother was “unavailable”.

Lyanna sank to the edge of the bed and watched him in his anguish. Aegon snuffled against her as he woke a little, but a gentle rock sent him back to sleep.

She knew the only answer that would save her beloved _and_ his kingdoms: Lyanna Stark would kill the King.

Once the decision was made, a great weight lifted from her soul. She had no doubt that it was the right thing to do. It would have to be done without detection, and for the sake of the Seven Kingdoms a seemingly natural death was necessary. A murder would throw suspicion on someone, deserved or not. It needed to be done well, not simply _done_.

‘Shush, shush darling one,’ she whispered to her little prince.

 

*

 

Considerations quickly turned to possible allies. She could not expect anyone to just help for the sake of it, and killing this particular king quietly was hindered by his paranoia.

A pillow while he slept could work, but he was stronger than he looked. Poison would be difficult to acquire and administer.

One of her chosen duties as Princess was to distribute charity to the needy, just as Queen Alysanne had established generations before. Sometimes this was simple and easy distribution of coin, otherwise it was gifting food or clothing to orphanages around the city. It gave her a sense of purpose beyond being someone’s wife and mother, and got her out of the Red Keep from time to time.

On such a day, she left Aegon in the care of his nurse and Selyse, and went out into the city with Ser Oswell to keep guard.

The Great Mother Orphanage was said to be the largest such institution in the Seven Kingdoms and it was still not big enough to cope with demand.

“Princess Lya” visited every moon-turn or so, and bestowed both coin and time upon the residents.

She did not wholly trust the Septa who ran it, who had eyes which looked a little too greedily upon the coins given, and so after giving the official donation she also made sure to donate some money to the young septas who had direct care of groups of children. Her favourite was Septa Aefa, a girl barely older than Lyanna herself, whose goodness shone from her green eyes and bright patient smile. She was not yet old enough to be worn down by experience or twisted by corruption.

‘Your Grace,’ Septa Aefa curtsied low and her dozen or so charges imitated as best they could.

‘Hello!’ Lyanna called out a greeting to them as gaily as she could.

She found seeing malnourished, near-hopeless faces of children utterly heart-breaking and having a son of her own now had only made it worse.

Still, she always made sure to be everything they needed a princess to be: kind, bright and lovely. She hugged them when they asked; coaxed the shy ones into smiling; played silly games with them until everyone was breathless from laughing.

‘I wish there was more I could do,’ she admitted to Aefa. ‘Sadly, I cannot. Prince Rhaegar is keen to improve conditions but-’

‘I understand, Your Grace.’ The Septa clearly did, and her impolitic scowl was message enough for Lyanna.

Her attention was drawn away by one of the little boys, whhose blond prettiness was reminiscent of Lannisters, although he had none of their scheming guile.

She lingered as long as she could, until Ser Oswell’s stares of reminder grew impossible to ignore.

‘Your Grace,’ Septa Aefa said. ‘My mother says that almost anything can be cured by calling on Lyseni women in their despair.’

She hurried away having made this odd, obscure remark which was so unlike the septa Lyanna knew.

On the journey back to the Red Keep, she almost ask Ser Oswell, but something in Aefa’s countenance kept her mouth shut.

Instead, she too herself to the Library at her first opportunity - two days later while Aegon slept - and search for any reference to Lys she could find.

After a while, she found a small reference to the Tears of Lys, a rare, powerful and quick-acting poison, but the effects on the bowels seemed undignified and too likely to raise questions. It was an idea that stuck though, as she considered poisons which would not appear to be poison

Sweetsleep seemed to offer the best possibility, not least because unlike the Tears of Lys, she could find it with relative ease. There were plenty of Maesters who carried it, plenty of reasons why one would possess Sweetsleep.

There was still the matter of dispensing this justice. Doubts began to take root in her mind. Could she really kill a king and get away with it? The many possibilities, good and ill, took hold of her even as she tried to present an appropriate face to the public.

At dinner one evening some weeks after the Burning of the Children - in the presence of the King, no less! - the answer presented itself when the Queen asked if she was well.

‘I am, dear good-mother, I assure you. I simply am not sleeping as well as I would like.’

It was a remark she tossed away casually, but Queen Rhaella frowned. She did not speak further then, but Lyanna was not surprised to find her waiting after dinner.

The Queen pressed a small blue bottle into her hand. ‘Sweetsleep. A single drop - just a drop! - will help for now. Do not use it every night. It will serve you better than Milk of the Poppy.’

Lyanna’s head swum and she barely managed to thank Rhaella before stumbling away down the corridor to her room.

‘Lyanna?’ Rhaegar was not far behind and she had only a moment to put the bottle in a drawer. ‘I’m worried about you. You have been distracted of late. I… What can I do?’

Lyanna felt warmth spread throughout her whole self at his concern for her. Her heart thumped hard at both his proximity, which she had missed, and the dark circles beneath his eyes.

‘I would ask the same of you in return, my love. What troubles you?’

‘The same as always. I rode to the Great Sept today. It is… what will I inherit, one day? Long in the future, of course.’ He looked up, the words not for either of them, but for any eavesdroppers. How paranoid they were all becoming…

‘Of course. We should rest, my prince.’

‘I cannot sleep. My mind is too full, too fast-moving.’

‘Then we should do something. What shall we do?’ She slipped her hands into the arms of his jerkin.

He moved away and she felt the sting of his rejection keenly. Her eyes burned with tears, and she hated the sense, even fleeting, of dependence upon him.

‘I'm sorry, Lyanna. I just… can’t now. Please… it’s not you, truly it isn’t.’

‘Then we shall find something else to do.’ She sounded more unconcerned than she felt. ‘Shall we escape this place for a while?’

Rhaegar’s face lit up with hope and possibility. ‘Shall we?’

‘ _Can_ we?’ she returned. ‘Where to? Summerhall?’

He laughed hollowly. ‘Nowhere so lovely or far away. No, I think somewhere closer but nearly as quiet.’

‘Where?’

‘Fetch your cloak, my love.’

She did so, and when she returned he was already in his own but not waiting by the door as expected, but by a previously concealed hole in the wall.

‘What is that?’

‘We can’t leave by usual means. My father has us too closely watched for that. You must keep quiet.’

Lyanna was absolutely silent as Rhaegar led her through a narrow corridor hidden behind the walls of the Red Keep’s rooms. The air was stale and heavy and she took short, shallow breaths and tried to make sure her boots did not slap too loudly against the floor.

Rhaegar’s path took them down a set of steps, but she paid little heed. Her mind was whirling. She had not considered that there were hidden passageways through the castle but it made perfect sense. The only reason Winterfell tended not to have such things was because the spaces between walls were used to heat the castle with water from the hot springs.

Could this be her way? Had the gods finally seen fit to provide her with answers to her questions on one night? Surely she was not so blessed? The Old Gods were not quite so straightforward, and they _always_ had their price.

Their journey ended on the banks of the Blackwater, to the very spot they had both fled to the night before they were married.

‘Do you remember?’ he asked, a little shy and unable to meet her eye.

‘Of course. I had no idea then that I would find such happiness with you.’ She took his hands and together they sank onto the riverbank.

They melted into each other, an intimate closeness that was born of a deep love more like the powerful, abiding embers of a fire rather than earlier unpredictable orange flames that rose up and flickered.

‘I want to give you _everything_ ,’ he whispered. ‘I want you to be happy. Are you happy, Lyanna?’

‘But for one thing, yes I am, greatly so,’ she replied quickly and honestly. ‘And none of the discontent is of your making. Know that, if nothing else.’

‘Yet, it must be, because I have the remedy-’

‘Shush, love. Shush.’ She knew she was cooing to him more like his was her son, not her husband, which was hardly likely to help his mood. He responded by curling more into her.

‘How can I pray for what I pray for?’ The words were issued in a reluctant moan, the prince still unwilling to easily speak harm. ‘How can that be? I had such dreams and I believed… I really _believed_ that the prophecy-’

‘Oh, the prophecy,’ she snapped. ‘That thing will be the death of you!’

‘Lyanna, do not say that. It is written, it is _known_ -’

Lyanna had been far more patient and understanding about his obsession with prophetic words than anyone who had been around her as a child would credit her with. Even when he seemed in danger of turning from their son because Aegon had not been born within the supposed strictures of the prophecy, she had tried to see it from his point of view. Rhaegar had spent his entire life in the smoky shadow of Summerhall and the demands of destiny, so she could forgive the stock he placed in its importance.

Now though, her patience was overpowered by love for him and for their son. She opened her mouth to speak, knowing as she did that she would find it impossible to rein herself in once she started. Still, better here than with the ears of the Red Keep to take note.

‘Well you see, that’s the thing about prophecies, Rhaegar. Whatever forces are driving our world will always make sure that the prophecy _can_ come true, but they don’t make it happen. You have one son already and I will give you many more children, but prophecies are only as good as their interpretation! By the Gods Old and New, Rhaegar, will you refuse to live a life in favour of wasting away for a prophecy?’

He stiffened like a board in her arms. She had gone too far, but the look on his face when presented with a son born in comfort and ease instead of salt and smoke was still bitter in her heart. She stroked his hair and kissed the crown of his head.

‘I don’t say any of this to cause you harm, you know. I say it because I love you, not because I don’t. I see how it wears on you.’

‘If it could just have been _me_ after all.’

‘I am glad, for my part. I would not have my heart’s song thrown into untold dangers and hardships. I am not keen for those things for my children either.’

‘But-’

‘The prophecy gives no times or dates. It could be many years in the future-’

‘It is not.’

‘It is _possibly_ not.’

‘There are things we do not see! Forces that you do not see!’

‘Do not see? Rhaegar, I’m the wolf blood of the North! I know that there are things beyond the Wall that we must be protected from. I know that there are mystical and wondrous things to see. I know that snarks and grumpkins are not as fictitious as the sceptical Southrons would like to think. _I know_. I have the blood of the First Men, just as you have the blood of Old Valyria-’

‘And that’s it!’ He sat up straight. ‘Our children are the blood of ice and fire! Never before has this happened… We two, Lyanna, have kindled a fire that will save the world!’

‘By all the gods, your arrogance is something to behold.’ She was teasing but he could not see it.

‘You should not joke of such things!’ he barked.

She refused to be cowed by him or his indignation. ‘Joke? I do not find any of this remotely funny!’

How had they gone from sweet silence to this?

‘I should think not, wife.’

‘ _Wife_?’

‘It is what you are!’

‘I believed you saw me as more than some simple label! More than a possession of a husband!’

‘I do, when you are worthy-’

‘O-ho!’ she crowed. The wolf’s growl rumbled through her head. ‘And now I have the Truth of it! Under his courtly armour of pretty words and loveliness, the Prince is just like _all those other men_!’

He tore away from her, as awkward as she had ever seen him, practically rolling along the riverbank. His torment was such that it began to take on physical form as he curled up upon himself. Her anger started to ebb away, as her fiery temper usually did when faced with the consequences of it.

‘Rhaegar…’ she stretched out and stared up at the stars in the dark sky. ‘I’m not feeling like myself.’

‘Nor am I,’ he muttered. He was now curled up like a child in a crib not quite used to life outside the room and looked up at her through his disarrayed hair. ‘I feel… half-mad. Which for my family-’

‘It’s this _fucking place_. I despise King’s Landing.’ She reached out and while he tensed at first contact he relaxed into the gentle massage of her fingers against his back.

‘I am not like _all those other men_ ,’ his hands gripped at his tunic desperately and his eyes narrowed and flashed furiously as his perfect face twisted with righteous indignation. ‘I am _not_. I have so much weighing upon me. The realm. The future.’

‘The weight of the world, you would have me believe,’ she replied. ‘Yet I say it has no need to be so. The prophecy will either be, or it will not be. I happen to think it _will_ … but you cannot force it. Your attempts to manipulate it will surely not end as you intend. That is what I mean by living. You must not allow your own self to be consumed by it.’

‘But-’

‘You have enough present day concerns to consume you well enough.’

‘I hate him.’ It was not as much a change of subject as it would have appeared to an outsider. Mercifully, there were no eavesdroppers.

‘Yes you do. You also love him, in spite of everything.’

‘Not any more. Yet, I cannot… I cannot.’ Tears fell from his eyes, unnoticed by him.

Lyanna could not bear to see him so torn up by his father and the prophecy and, in fact, the weight of the world, without wanting to be sick herself. It was up to her to be a comfort: ‘Shush, my love. The world will work itself out if you let it.’

They remained by the water for some time, stretched out on the riverbank, staring up at the stars.

‘One day, we will be amongst the stars,’ he murmured.

‘What a thing to say. Yet… it is a nice idea. I would like to live on somehow.’

‘You will live forever,’ he replied quickly. ‘I will make sure of it. Everyone for a thousand years will know that Prince Rhaegar loved Princess Lyanna.’

Oh how warm she was, bathed in the heat of his affections, his ardour and his love. How could she give that up? Certainly she put it at great risk by even ruminating upon the death of the King. Could she live without him? There was some consolation in knowing that she would be executed in short order: Lyanna would not have to live without Rhaegar but he would have to live without her.

He could call Elia back, or let Cersei Lannister have what she wanted. Rhaegar would survive. Flourish, most likely. He was such a perfect almost-King. He had such hopes, ideals and plans to make the Seven Kingdoms a better place.

She could and _would_ do it, not in spite of Rhaegar but because of Rhaegar.

It was, she reasoned, a form of love.

 

*

 

The following days were spent quietly and tentatively exploring the corridor behind the door in Rhaegar’s room. Each afternoon, she settled Aegon down to sleep and slipped away, confident that if her sweet child stirred, someone would be near. Terrified of getting lost, Lyanna carefully marked out her route and it took several days of exploring for her to find a half-blocked peephole that looked into the King’s own bedchamber and under it, an iron door handle.

The room was absolutely empty, so she tried the handle. It opened soundlessly and she closed it again, happy that she had a plan after all. Now all she needed to do was convince herself that murder in the night was honourable.

That evening, while she was still contemplating grand questions of morality and ethics, of regicide and tyranny, Lyanna was invited to the Queen’s chambers.

The Queen was exhausted and her colour was high.

‘Oh Mother!’ Lyanna embraced her closely and felt her good-mother’s weak bones creak under her robes. ‘Are you unwell?’

‘I am expecting.’ Rhaella _never_ used the word “pregnant”.

‘Oh.’ Lyanna could not congratulate her, not for another Aerys-child.

Rhaella did not expect congratulations or praise. ‘I cannot believe my good fortune. Yet I have lost so many babes.’

Rhaella pulled herself back under regulation but her lack of joy only served to harden Lyanna’s resolve.

Aerys _would_ die tonight, before he could do any more harm.

At dinner, she listened to him and his ramblings as attentively as she could manage, listening to him spew bile above the ungrateful people, the ones who objected to their kin dying by wildfires for stealing food.

‘I am doing those _fools_ a service by removing their unworthy relations-’

As his father went on, Rhaegar’s jaw locked, then he visibly ground his teeth. He looked at Lyanna for an instant, then to his place for the rest of the night.

In the privacy - relative though it was - of their room, he paced and paced until only some time with Aegon could pacify him, like he was the infant and Aegon the parent.

‘I would,’ he whispered despondently. ‘I will.’

‘No,’ she whispered back fiercely. ‘You could not.’

‘What choice do I have?’

Lyanna thought of the Sweetsleep hidden away. It would be better to damn herself for king-slaying in secret than her beloved be tried for kin-slaying in public.

It was not even a choice. The King would die this night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a while - I have become rather sucked into SW:TFA (I have fic in progress here if you're interested...) and it's taken up rather a lot of time.
> 
> I was also rather blocked about how to get to the next point in this story, but I think we're good now. It's worrying how getting into Aerys' head fixed it... please don't think that my writing him is any kind of endorsement. I feel prety sick having written his piece, but even someone like him is the hero in his own head.
> 
> Constructive comments always welcome!


	30. Long Live The King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has commented or left kudos in the rather long time since I last updated. Aside from the realities of finding time to write fic, I had been finding the approach to this particular chapter a bit of a challenge so now I'm over that, I'd like to think that I can get another chapter out a bit quicker!
> 
> Previously on Dragon Roar, Wolf Howl: The King killed some children; the Queen announced a pregnancy; the Prince and Princess of Dragonstone despaired.

Ser Gerold I

 

In all his many years, Ser Gerold Hightower had travelled almost the length and breadth of Westeros. He had stood in the great library of the Citadel; had supped in the best and worst taverns; had seen winter snows and summer mirages.

He was a son of House Hightower, one of the oldest and greatest of the families of the Seven Kingdoms. The blood of the First Men and the Vandals did flow in his veins.

He was a worthy successor to Ser Duncan the Tall as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, yet a deep and powerful guilt weighed upon him, heavier with every moment that passed and Aerys II of House Targaryen still breathed and plotted and maimed and murdered.

Ser Gerold had failed in his first duty as a knight by remaining true to his vow to his king. His body was powerful and strong but his spirit was depleted with each new scream from behind closed doors and each new fiery execution.

Whatever he did, he was damned by the gods. Was oath-breaking worse than wilful inaction?

In such a situation, it was not surprising perhaps that Gerold rarely slept for more than a handful of hours each night and was wide awake when there was a pounding on his door. Nobody ever interrupted him for good reasons, so he pulled on his boots and grabbed his sword-belt before opening the door.

Jaime Lannister stood there, red of face and short of breath. ‘The King- the- he-’

‘Spit it out, boy!’

‘The King is dead!’

His training was such that Ser Gerold did not consider his own opinions or feelings, only the basic need to do his duty. Jamie all but ran ahead of him as they rushed from the White Sword Tower to Maegor’s Holdfast.

‘Who knows so far?’

‘Only we two and Ser Arthur, so far,’ Jamie kept his voice low as they strode through the quiet halls.

By the lack of light outside, and the low burning candles, Ser Gerold guessed it to be the very early hours of the morning. Nobody was awake unless they had to be, and few had to be, so the Keep was mercifully quiet.

Ser Arthur Dayne was at the King’s door, stood guard as if nothing at all was amiss, yet his brows furrowed as his commander passed and he nodded a brief greeting.

Inside the King’s bedroom, fires roared in both hearths and the King’s corpse was already decomposing in the stifling heat. The King was not even forty name days gone, yet looked twenty more, his stringy white hair and long, cracked fingernails unworthy of the greatest man in the Seven Kingdoms.

Aerys, Second of his Name, was definitely, certainly, absolutely dead. His face was twisted in an expression of contorted agony, jaw open and unaligned. His hands gripped the fine red bedsheet, frozen in death.

‘Heart attack?’ Ser Arthur guessed.

Ser Gerold would not comment or speculate. ‘Lannister, fetch the Grand Maester. Arthur… you should fetch Prince Rh- _King_ Rhaegar.’

‘Yes, Lord Commander,’ they chimed.

Left alone with his hated, hateful King’s deceased person, Gerold Hightower considered that he had seen many a strange sight, many a terrible sight and many an uplifting sight. Rarely was something all three.

He examined the room carefully for signs of disturbance, or any clue that the death might have been anything but natural. Nothing. The secret door was closed and although it looked like it had been opened recently, that was no clue given how the King liked his spies to visit him.

No poisons to be found, nor any weapon. The King had no obvious wounds - the Grand Maester would confirm that - and everything in the room seemed to be in its rightful place.

He opened the window, needing to get musty decay and fresh death out of his nostrils. Outside, King’s Landing was quiet, as still as it ever was. The weight on his shoulders edged away a little.

The King was _dead_. Strange that it would be a natural death for one with so many enemies; bittersweet that someone so paranoid about assassination would be dispatched by the gods themselves.

‘What has happened?’ Rhaegar - the King - arrived fresh from his own bed, still in the process of securing his clothes and smoothing his sleep-mussed hair.

Ser Gerold sank to his knees. ‘Your Grace.’

Rhaegar stared, face blank, at the bed and its contents, his purple eyes shining in the firelight. ‘It is true? It is… over?’

‘Yes, Your Grace.’

The Prince-King cleared his throat and Ser Gerold fancied he saw the young man’s mind move from shock into pragmatism. ‘Are there signs of foul play?’

‘Not that I can see, Your Grace. The Grand Maester may find something but… Your Grace, I feel this was not the act of men.’

Rhaegar nodded. ‘Very well. Secure the room until the Maester attends. I must… see to my family.’

‘Yes, Your Grace. I… May His Grace find peace in the world beyond.’

Rhaegar did not answer. He squared his shoulders and straightened his spine. ‘Ser Gerold, you served King Aerys faithfully. It is my wish that you would do the same for me.’

‘Of course, Your Grace.’

‘Then rise up, old friend.’ Rhaegar let the ghost of a smile play upon his mouth. ‘We are in a new world now… may the Seven grant me strength and wisdom.’

‘Those you already have, Your Grace.’

Rhaegar nodded. ‘Thank you. I must… I must go to my family,’ he repeated and turned away.

Ser Gerold took a long deep breath and felt a little more weight lift from him. Outside, the dawn was beginning to crack.

 

*

 

Rhaegar XIII

Rhaegar paused at the door to his own rooms to steady his breath and bring strength back to his wobbling legs. How was he to break the news? Lyanna would hardly be grieved but he could not guess at his mother’s reaction. How often had he marvelled at her apparent affection for the monster to whom she was wedded?

He wished dearly to feel anything more than relief and liberation, but no grief came. No sadness, only regret.

Aerys was dead. His mother was free. He was free. Viserys was free. The Seven Kingdoms were _free._

Was this how a tyranny ended? Not with a great explosion of emotion or some great act, but silently, unobserved in the night?

It was all Aerys deserved, but Rhaegar’s shock ebbed and was followed by injustice, a belief that they had all been cheated out of _something_.

His father was dead, and Rhaegar was relieved of the jinx of deposing or killing him. That was certainly something.

Lyanna was fast asleep, her hand dangling into the crib beside her. Since the King had burnt those children, she had kept the princeling close to her whenever she could. The strange irony was of course, that Aegon was the safest child in the Seven Kingdoms. Lyanna wasn’t stupid: she knew that, but her maternal protection did not trust Aerys’ belief in the purity and value of Targaryen blood.

Strange to think that he was married to Lyanna through the machinations of his despised father; that his father was responsible for the great joy of his life was a bitter truth to swallow.

He went to his small antechamber and lit a candle at his desk, to start composing a list of the many tasks suddenly necessary. Rhaegar was surprised to find his hands trembling at first, but he forced himself into the activity, and did not notice his wife wake and rise.

‘What was it?’ Lyanna leaned against the door jamb, woozy in half-sleep.

‘Oh…’ he dropped his quill and slumped in his chair. ‘He is dead.’

‘What?’

‘The King is dead.’

Lyanna’s expression froze, eyebrows high and mouth open a little. ‘Oh. How are you, my love?’

‘I hardly know.’

She reached out and he latched onto her, grasping around her waist with his bare arms.

‘I am King now… I have not even been to Mother. She is… I thought to let her rest a little longer. It is very early, after all.’

Lyanna stroked his hair softly. ‘What happened?’

‘Ser Gerold does not believe the king was murdered. At any rate, who could get past Arthur and Jaime?’

‘Then… we are…’ Lyanna took a deep breath. ‘He cannot harm us - any of us - ever again. I am glad. I am glad he is gone. I am sorry to say it, but I am.’

Rhaegar gripped her tighter, wishing to be as close to her as he could possibly get, his anchor to the world. ‘I am… I am also glad.’

He shuddered, the words still tasting of treason, but continued: ‘He did many terrible things. I must… I must heal the realm.’

‘If anyone can, it is you. But for now, you must sleep a little more.’

‘I cannot. There is much to do.’

‘As you wish, my love.’ She pressed warm, fond kisses to his face. ‘Tell me what I can do to help you.’

‘Care for my mother, and Viserys. And Aegon. The rest will come in time.’

‘It is easier done than said, dearest love.’

Rhaegar released her then, and watched her return to their room, an inappropriate but entirely understandable spring in her step. A thousand thoughts swirled in his weary mind, many contradictory and many bleak. He willed himself to consider the future, now so much brighter.

The future he had been dreaming of for so many years: one of reform and goodness, progress and beauty, was finally about to begin.

He was King at last, and anything was possible. A knock on the door interrupted them: Pycelle. Rhaegar did not miss the way Lyanna flinched at sight of him, or that she shrank away to their bedchamber rather than speak to him.

Rhaegar barely even turned in his chair to acknowledge the man: ‘Yes, Grand Maester?’

Pycelle bent into the best obsequious bow that his ageing body could manage. ‘Your Grace, may I extend my sincerest-’

‘Yes, thank you. What news?’

‘I have examined the late King and it is my considered opinion that His Grace died of natural causes. He was removed from the realm of the living by the grace of the Seven and-’

‘You’re certain?’

‘Certain? I cannot of course, be entirely certain, but I am the foremost Maester in the country and-’ Pycelle finally caught the narrowing of the King’s eyes. ‘Yes, Your Grace.’

‘Very well. Thank you, Grand Maester. Now, I fear I will need your assistance.’

‘As you wish, Your Grace. I am ever at your eternal disposal, until the day that the Stranger comes-’

‘I need to see my mother. I believe she will be most distressed at the news and your expertise will be needed.’

‘Of course.’

Rhaegar put his pen back into its pot. ‘We cannot delay any longer. Come, Pycelle.’

 

*

 

Lyanna XIV

 

While her husband - the King! - went to his mother, Lyanna dressed and readied herself for the day. Her son was given over to the care of his nursemaid and she then felt ready to face the world. It had been a dreadfully long night, all things considered, and she would be under more scrutiny today than any other day of her life, including her wedding day.

Upon arriving at the Queen’s apartment, Lyanna found them in uproar. Rhaella was well-known as a calm, placid woman but this was something else entirely. Her Targaryen blonde hair was in disarray and her robe was a mess of creases and uneven lacing as she stood in the depths of a despair known to few.

Her eyes were red and sore from weeping and her gaze was unfixed and unfocused. Her voice screeched across the uproar, the words unintelligible. In that moment, she seemed to have _become_ her brother-husband.

Rhaegar had been trying to console his mother since the painful moment he broke the news to her. Lyanna saw it took much of his considerable strength to wrestle Rhaella into stillness.

‘Mother, sweet Mother, do not be so grieved-’

‘Aerys is dead! He is gone! What am I to do now? I hardly know where he begins and I end! How am I to even _breathe_?’

Rhaegar’s eyes glittered with tears and for a moment his shoulders slumped before returning to their proper posture. ‘He was _evil_ to you, mother! How can you-’

‘He was my _brother_! Then he was my husband! I have never known life without him!’ she wailed anew. ‘He was _my king_! He was _everything_. The moon and sun and all the stars-’

She was lost to hysteria. Rational Rhaella did not think in such terms. Lyanna’s heart ached for Rhaella. For everything ill that Aerys had done to her, she was right that he had been the centre of her universe for all her life. No wonder she felt cut adrift. Hopefully in time, she would see it as liberation.

‘Milk of the poppy may help,’ Rhaegar suggested, nodding to Pycelle where he stood in the doorway.

His presence never soothed Lyanna, but Rhaella seemed to relax a little.

‘Yes!’ Rhaella cried. ‘Anything to stop this agony…’

Soon, the Queen was subdued and then finally, rested in a deathlike poppy slumber.

‘Get out, Pycelle.’ Rhaegar left no room for argument.

Then Rhaegar and Lyanna were alone with his unconscious mother.

‘How can she… how can she be so _sad_?’ Lyanna asked. ‘He was-’

‘He was not always so terrible,’ Rhaegar’s words snapped like a whip. ‘I can understand. For everything… he was my father and I loved him. I just wish… that he had loved me.’

His left knee trembled, then in the blink of an eye, Rhaegar was on the floor. His legs had gone from under him and his body shook with repressed grief. Lyanna crouched and enveloped him in what she hoped was a comforting embrace.

‘Cry if you must, my love. I won’t tell.’

The dam broke and he wept, not only for the loss of his father, but for every smaller loss as his father descended into vicious madness. He cried for every injustice, every wildfire death, every time he had humiliated Rhaella with other women and then later, every abuse of Rhaella. He sobbed for the little boy he himself had once been, wanting only a father’s gentle love and guiding hand. He wept for Viserys, who had lived in the frigid shadow of death his entire life; for the unborn dragon who was both blessed and damned to soon be born fatherless.

He cried for all Westeros, those who had suffered and bled, fought and died because of Bad King Aerys. Then he ceased his tears.

‘I will be a far better king than him,’ he swore. ‘Not just because he was bad, but because I will be good.’

‘Oh, of that I have no doubt, my king.’ Lyanna kissed his cheeks, and was relieved when he reached up to meet her lips with his own.

‘He gave me you,’ he murmured, voice sweet and boyish after his upset. ‘He was not always wrong.’

She was loathe to give Aerys credit for anything. ‘Perhaps more a lucky coincidence.’

‘Oh no,’ Rhaegar allowed her to help him to his feet, then kissed her hands. ‘We were brought together by the fates themselves. The song of ice and fire…’

‘Yes, Your Grace. Come, let us return to our rooms and prepare you to meet the people.’

‘Court can wait.’

‘Court can always wait, but the people, Rhaegar. The smallfolk love you, and now is the time to repay that love and reassure them that greater days are coming.’

‘Yes, you are right.’

‘And now you are thinking of the Prince That Was Promised again.’

‘Of course. How can I not when the fate of all the peoples of the Seven Kingdoms rest with me?’

‘You do not know that is the meaning-’

‘I have studied-’

‘I am not going to speak of this now, not when you are in a tumult... Come on.’

Jon Connington was waiting for them at Rhaegar’s door, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and back again. Lyanna hated the way his face lit up on sight of the King, not through jealousy but sympathy. Rhaegar would never love him as he would want, and that was surely a terrible truth to live with.

Jon fell to his knees. ‘My King-’

‘Get up, Jon. There will be plenty of time for all that soon enough. Come in and tell me what you have learnt so far.’

Inside, Jon looked at Lyanna expectantly.

‘My place is here, Jon,’ she said firmly.

He looked to Rhaegar, who scowled. ‘You may not think women have much value in this world, but I do. Lyanna stays and you will not question your _queen_ again.’

‘At least not until you need to point out that I’m wrong,’ she said, sliding into the seat beside him. ‘I am told it happens occasionally.’

Jon glared as she took Rhaegar’s hand, but cleared his throat to speak. ‘As he told you, the Grand Maester believes the late King’s heart simply stopped. There were no signs of foul play upon the King’s royal person and no sign that anyone was in the room. There are no indications that anyone broke into the Keep at all.’

‘Not even the secret door into the King’s rooms?’

Jon startled. ‘No, my prince. King. Lord Varys said the King had it permanently sealed.’

‘He would never do that,’ Rhaegar countered. ‘He was too paranoid to remove his escape route entirely. Have it checked.’

‘Yes, Your Grace… but perhaps we could mourn the King and rejoice in our new King-’

‘If he was murdered, it is of paramount importance to me!’ Rhaegar snapped. ‘However much we may have wanted -

He took a moment to calm himself, and Lyanna fancied she could see him wrestling his inner dragon into submission.

‘Nobody can kill a king and go unpunished. I would never feel safe, would fear for my wife, my children-’

‘Fear not,’ Lyanna’s voice quivered. ‘We will always be safe with you as our King.’

‘Men his age do not simply die for no reason. Even ones as… troubled… as he. Jon, I just want to be sure.’

‘Of course. I will see to it.’

‘Now, tell us what people say.’

‘They are saddened at the death of their king-’

‘Try again, friend.’

‘Relief, Your Grace. Rhaegar, I heard smallfolk earlier calling for the heads of the pyromancers. A song is already going around the Landing called “The Unmourned King”. You do not want to hear the refrain.’

‘My mother must _not_ hear it. What say they people of their new king?’

Lyanna saw how nervous he was, and squeezed his hand.

‘You are already being called King Rhaegar the Brave; the Silver King of course, the Young Dragon-’

‘I haven’t done anything yet.’

‘People know your goodness,’ Lyanna said. ‘They know what you were as Prince of Dragonstone. You have not suddenly started again. They know how you sought to curb King Aerys’ worst excesses. How brave you are; what a warrior you are… and everyone knows the sweetness of your song.’

Rhaegar rolled his eyes and smiled a little. ‘You’re teasing me, wife.’

‘Only a little.’

‘I will address the court this evening,’ he told Jon. ‘I… I will appear to the smallfolk after that. For now, if I do not sleep at least a little, I will fall over.’

‘Yes, Your Grace. I will keep my ears open.’

‘Good. I will want to see Varys myself later. The more you can know about him and his little birds, the better. And I want the pyromancers rounded up. Quietly.’

‘Yes, Your Grace.’ Jon bowed deep and left then.

‘I am very tired,’ Rhaegar told her. ‘Suddenly very drained.’

‘Sleep, my love. The kingdom will wait.’

Lyanna watched him drift into sleep, and only then allowed herself to collapse a little. It had been a very, very long day and it was only mid-morning.


	31. A Departure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the comments and kudos so far! All most gratefully received.
> 
> A quick return to the future for now... hopefully there'll be a bigger chapter ready soon!

Arya III

 

After several weeks, the King and his party prepared to travel even further north than Winterfell. They were to ride to Castle Black to inspect the Night’s Watch and the Wall itself.

Arya, to no one’s surprise, wanted to join them and took to asking everyone in hopes of getting a positive answer: ‘Can I come?’

It was her cousin Jon’s turn to be asked, as they were in the schoolroom. She was supposed to be doing her numbers; Jon was reading a history of House Stark. Across the room, Aegon, Robb and Theon were in the middle of something to do with great battles of the North, while Bran practised his letters. Maester Luwin kept a close eye on them all, so they all behaved.

‘Not in a million moons,’ Jon replied, not even glancing up from his book.

‘Just accept that you’re a girl,’ Theon called over. ‘You can’t come.’

‘I want to stand on the Wall and see all the way to the Land of Always Winter.’

‘That sounds horrid,’ Bran mumbled, scratching out a large “D” with his pen.

‘Well you can’t come,’ Robb told Arya. ‘And you’re just annoying everyone by asking all the time.’

‘But I-’

‘Oh Arya, just shut up!’ Theon barked back.

Maester Luwin intervened then: ‘You will keep a civil tongue, young Greyjoy.’

‘She’s being-’

‘Leave Arya alone,’ Prince Aegon said, summoning all his Princely Authority. ‘Or you will have me to answer to.’

‘Is that a challenge, Your _Grace_?’ Theon sniped back. He was not much fond of the pretty blond boy with all his power, promise and gold.

‘If you want it to be.’

‘Boys!’ Luwin hardly had to raise his voice. ‘You will act as the responsible young men you claim to be, or I will recommend that you be returned to the nursery.’

‘But-’

‘Maester, this is unacceptable-’

‘You may say what you will,’ Luwin countered. ‘But you are neither of you lords just yet. Your Grace, I was the first person to slap your backside. Greyjoy, I taught you to read and write. You may live a thousand years each and you will still be boys to me, until you show yourselves worthy of more. So I suggest you return to your studies and put talk of duelling aside.’

Silence from the cowed boys.

‘Maester Luwin-’ Arya began.

‘The answer will always be no, little Arya. Do not ask again.’

 

*

 

Arya did not watch the King and his riders leave. Father went with them, intending to ride no further than Last Hearth to see the Greatjon before then returning via Karhold.

Aegon and Jon went with the King and Duncan was almost as displeased to be left behind as Arya.

‘One day,’ he said, at least more philosophical than she. ‘When I’m old enough.’

What bothered Arya most was that the Queen went along with them. She was a girl, too! It also meant she missed out on the continuance of the story Aunt Lyanna had been telling them.

‘Arya, Arya!’ Sansa burst into her room that night, waving some pages. ‘Aunt Lyanna left us this! She wrote the next part of the story down for us.’

They huddled together in Arya’s bed, a sisterly truce formed for now.

‘Arya…’ Sansa did not start reading directly. ‘Do you think the King likes Aegon?’

‘Of course he does.’

‘Aegon said- never mind.’

‘What did he say?’

‘Well, have you ever noticed how the King - Uncle Rhaegar - seems to talk to Jon a lot more?’

‘No.’ Arya was lying.

In fact, it had been even more noticeable when the royal family was at home in King’s Landing. At private family meals, Jon always sat next to his father. Uncle Rhaegar loved all his children dearly, but he seemed to _like_ Jon best. Aegon had once told her that it was because Jon was the only Targaryen child to bear the Stark look, but she’d sensed he was not being entirely truthful.

She had wondered about it, but Arya was more a child of action than introspection and soon forgot, until Sansa brought it up again.

‘Do you like Aegon?’ she asked.

It was an innocent question, but the way Sansa’s face blossomed into a blush couldn’t be ignored. ‘I think he’s very… princely.’

‘Well, he’s a _prince_.’

‘Yes, but he acts like it as well! He’s very chivalrous. What… what was he like in King’s Landing?’

Arya wanted to tease her sister, but Aunt Lyanna’s reminders to be kind stuck in her mind, and it had clearly taken Sansa a great deal to ask Arya’s advice.

‘He’s very funny. He also thinks he’s the greatest Targaryen since Aegon the Conqueror. He’s…’ Arya shrugged. ‘He’s just Egg.’

‘He’ll be the King one day.’

‘Yes.’

‘I think he’ll be a very good King.’

Arya thought on this, and felt very grown up to do so. ‘I think so too. Now, are you going to read or not? I want to know what happened next!’

The sisters snuggled under the warm covers and Sansa started to read in her very best Lady’s Voice.


	32. The Next Day...

Rhaegar XIV

 

Rhaegar’s first appearance to the people as King came on the evening of his first day in the position. Rarely was the Great Hall so crowded. Even notables and those with ancient names were required to push and shove for a place; minor lords did not even make it into the hall and surged outside in the courtyard.

At dusk, bells across the city tolled in remembrance of the dead King and the new King arrived. Dressed in his most ornate black armour, except the helm, and a blood red clack that swirled behind as he walked, King Rhaegar, First of His Name, took to the Iron Throne. He was a sight to see: long blond hair flowing, purple eyes bright and clear, unquestionably beautiful face calm and collected. He was the perfect Targaryen King in the moment and a true hush fell upon the Hall despite the numbers present.

Behind him, two Queens followed: subdued, mourning dowager Queen Rhaella and sombre, thoughtful new Queen Lyanna, both draped in the same black and red of House Targaryen. Behind them, young Prince Viserys trailed, bored by spectacle and unhappy at the attention.

 _Continuity_ , even as the world was changing entirely.

There was a slight clatter and scratch of metal on metal, then silence, then applause. A wave of collective relief washed through the room and out into the courtyard. From there, it flowed through the city and eventually to the kingdoms beyond.

For some time, King Rhaegar sat and looked out upon the people who had made it into the Great Hall. Tywin Lannister was a notable absence, but he had long been absent from King’s Landing. He met the unyielding gaze of Olenna Tyrell, who smirked in return.

King Rhaegar then rose up to his feet again to make his first speech as King. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a gaggle of young scribes ready to take note of his utterances, no matter how trivial.

‘King Aerys, Second of His Name, is dead. The Grand Maester has confirmed that my respected father’s heart stopped, after the long reign in which he dedicated that heart to the Seven Kingdoms. I now pledge myself and my life in service to the realm, from the sand and heat of Dorne to the ice and cold of the North. To all the people I do swear my fealty: to the Crownlands and the Reach; to the Iron Islands and the River lands; to the Westerlands and the Vale; to you all. The crown is a mighty power and a great responsibility. I will serve it from this day to my last day.’

He took a deep breath and cast his violet gaze around. ‘Soon, we will be crowned in the Great Sept of Baelor as our ancestors have been. Until then, know this: we will leave this throne better than I found it. Will you all work with us until then? Will we stand and prosper together?’

A great roar of approval shook the building, and a little brick dust crumbled into the air and fell ignored onto the heads of the great and the good.

‘Long live King Rhaegar!’

Once raised, the call took some time to quiet down, during which he called for his wife and mother to join him. Since her breakdown earlier in the day, Queen Rhaella had composed herself as only she could. She bent the knee to her son, and fixed her gaze upon the stone floor.

Queen Lyanna flashed him a brief, cheeky grin of a smile, and followed her good-mother in pledging allegiance to him.

On cue, Brandon Stark stepped forward and was the first nobleman to formally pledge fealty to the new king. Jon Connington followed quickly behind him, frowning slightly that he had not been able to be first. In the blink of an eye, nobody in the Great Hall was on their feet except King Rhaegar.

‘Arise!’ he called out, his rich singer’s voice clear even a distance away. ‘We have much work to do. We will have a time of great endeavour, culture and most of all, peace.’

The assemblage rose almost as if one body. Lady Tyrell caught his eye again, and Rhaegar felt all the heaviness of court intrigue settle on his shoulders. He smiled then, the smile that had already stolen thousands of hearts already.

‘We mourn King Aerys today; tomorrow we start on our journey.’

It was not an emotive remark; it could be interpreted as cold or critical but he would not pretend to feel more than he did. No longer.

The King strode away then, closely followed by the two Queens and his brother. In the Robing Room, his mother sought his attention.

‘I shall stay for the funeral and for your coronation, dearest Rhaegar,’ she told him. She held out her arms so her handmaidens could remove her heavy outer robe. ‘And then I will go to Dragonstone.’

‘Mother-’

‘I must get out of this _bloody_ Keep. I’d see it burnt if I could.’

Rhaegar and Lyanna ex hanged a worried look - hearing Rhaella sound so much like Aerys was unnerving.

‘As you would, Mother. Will you take Viserys?’

‘Of course!’ she snapped. Her handmaidens flinched a little, but continued with their de-robing task. ‘He remains with me. He should leave this place, for his own good.’

Rhaegar allowed his squire to unhook his breastplate and winced as it clanked against the floor.

‘Sorry, Your Grace.’

‘Worry not. Mother, you must do what is right.’

Rhaella reached out and stroked his face. ‘Thank you, sweet one.’

As soon as he was out of his armour, he bowed to both Queens, who were still being helped out of their intricate robes. ‘I must… there are things to which I must attend.’

He did not give them time to respond.

 

*

 

With more than two score men working long hours, it still took two days to build the funeral pyre for King Aerys of House Targaryen, Second of His Name, The Unmourned. King Rhaegar of House Targaryen, First of His Name and currently touted by the singers as “The Great Hope”, watched from a window in the Red Keep as the pyre grew ever larger in an open space just beyond the Tourney Fields.

Aerys had wanted his pyre in the square outside the Dragonpit, but any pyre as large as Aerys had asked for had no place in built-up areas. King Aerys had been incredibly specific about the arrangements, although his motives were shrouded in mystery as much in death as in life. Perhaps it had been about dragons, but the new King refused to put the city at risk for a dead man’s folly.

Perhaps his father had wanted to see the whole city burn after all.

He took a soothing breath and turned away from the window. Being the King was at once completely different and yet exactly the same as being prince.

Prince Rhaegar had taken on so many of the practical duties of kingship that the day to day realities of his new life were not unsurprising.

He had carried the weight of expectations for years, yet now he had the weight of meeting them as well.

All his plans, schemes, hopes and dreams clamoured for attention. He wanted to fix everything at once, yet knew he could not. He felt the importance of every life in the Seven Kingdoms: they were in his care now.

He slumped down into the he chair at his desk and immediately straightened up from a lifetime of scolding from a mother determined to see him poised.

‘Jon!’

It only took Connington a moment to appear at the door, as though he’d been waiting on the other side for Rhaegar’s call. Almost certainly, Rhaegar considered with some gentle humour, he had.

He almost certainly had. ‘Your Grace?’

‘Tomorrow, or as soon as may be, I want to see the twenty best engineers and inventors, and I want them to each present me with an idea to improve life in the realm. That is all the brief I give them.’

‘Yes, Your Grace.’

‘I also want to see the ten best singers, the High Septon, the Grand Maester and Brandon Stark.’

‘Yes, Your Grace. All tomorrow?’

‘’As soon as they can get here. I will meet people in the order they arrived. Also, I want it known across the realm that the King wants the best ideas for the benefit of the realm brought to him. King’s Landing must become a beacon for enlightened ideas.’

‘Your Grace.’ John spoke as if Rhaegar had not asked for little short of the earth itself.

‘Thank you, Jon.’

‘Of course, Your-’

‘And I want to know how my mother is.’

‘I shall ask the Grand Maester to update you when he comes.’

‘Sooner. I am worried about her. She has hardly left her room since it happened.’

‘It won’t do for her to miss the Coronation-’

‘Hang the bloody coronation!’ Rhaegar slammed his hand against the top of his desk. A pen rattled off and hit the floor. ‘I am worried about my _mother_.’

Jon bowed low, the hem of his red cloak brushing against the Targaryen red floor covering, and the two shades of red clashed. Why Rhaegar noticed this in particular, he wasn’t sure. ‘Of course. My apologies, Your Grace.’

‘And I apologise for snapping, Jon. You’re working very hard for the good of the realm and I do appreciate it. I do.’

‘Thank you, but I work for your first, the realm second. You are my friend and… _I_ worry about _you_.’

‘I am perfectly well, Jon.’

‘Forgive me, but you are not. You do not sleep. I’ve hardly seen you eat anything and the last time I saw you with your wife, she might as well have been invisible to you. I am hardly Princess Lyanna’s greatest admirer, but I know you are-’

‘I do not ignore her! I love her mother and life and-’ he stopped abruptly. When had he last seen Lyanna? He’d stopped in at the nursery to see Aegon but- ‘Oh. Oh, Jon.’

‘Your Grace?’ Jon was ever, ever patient.

‘I need you to do all the things I have asked, but first, I must attend my wife. Delay everything by an hour. Two. Or more. She’ll want to spend some time telling me off. And she’ll be right. Gods, what manner of husband am I? What kind of King?’

‘You are a good King, Your Grace. I cannot answer the other, but I think any lady would be fortunate. Especially-’ Jon stopped himself.

Purple eyes narrowed, Rhaegar bid him continue.

‘Lyanna-’

‘ _Queen_ Lyanna.’

‘Queen Lyanna is not a typical lady.’

‘I am not a typical king. At least, I hope not. I am more than blessed to have such a wife as the gods gave me. Beyond blessed, Jon.’

‘I meant no insult, Your Grace.’

‘I am sure. I am so on edge.’

‘Then perhaps you should seek the counsel of your wife, just as you said.’

‘Yes. Hold everything for two hours.’ Rhaegar rose from his seat and only then felt how stiff his legs had become from so long sat there. His muscles strained as he moved towards the door.

He passed Jon, then stopped. ‘Make it three.’

 

*

 

Lyanna XV

 

It was one thing to know why Rhaegar had absented himself from her side for two days. It was another entirely to understand. Lyanna the Queen knew; the wife did not, although she strove to. She was not only a wife, so she swallowed the hurt and went about her duties as best she could.

The young princeling could want for nothing except time with his father and she spent much time meeting with representatives of charitable organisations eager to know whether the new Queen’s patronage would be as forthcoming as the Dowager’s had been.

They went away reassured, although a few of the better dressed left feeling that Queen Lyanna would be more actively involved in ensuring the money went where it should.

She brought Prince Viserys into her sphere while his mother was shut away in her rooms alternately sedated and ill from pregnancy.

She supposed, intellectually, that it was all to be expected. His father’s funeral had yet to take place and everything was new, unknown, uncertain. Lyanna’s frustration came not from being ignored, but from being unable to be of use. For the first time since the earliest days of their marriage, she was lonely.

Lyanna had few friends in the capital. Her brother had returned from Winterfell and a trip to Riverrun to explain to Lord Hoister Tully that the King had required the betrothal between himself and young Catelyn be dissolved. Yet, he was not much around: busy with one thing or another, and with the weight of the Kingdoms weighing heavy, his wild, Stranger-May-Care attitude was more irritating than endearing.

Within hours of King Aerys’ death, Princess Elia Martell had been released from her prison-by-any-other-name and had taken a villa not far from the Red Keep but definitely outside its walls. Without much else to do and feeling that a visit was overdue, Lyanna went to visit.

The villa was quite small but very well appointed: dark polished floors, high ceilings and the Martell Sun given pride of place throughout. Princess Elia herself looked tired but the shadow of fear in her eyes had gone.

‘Why didn't you bring Prince Aegon?’ she asked, lounging on a sofa near the open windows. The clatter of carts and chatter of voices carried up from the street. ‘I should like to meet him.’

Lyanna had occasionally been able to visit Elia but had been absolutely forbidden from taking Aegon to her luxurious cell. This time, it had not even occurred to her, but she thought personally it was more to give herself an hour of peace.

‘I shall next time. If there is to be a next time, of course. Will you return home to Dorne?’

Elia sipped tea from a delicate, decorated cup. Her dark hair fluttered around her beautiful dark face. ‘I might look for a husband almagest the lords who attend the funeral. I should like to marry again, if only to become someone’s mother at last.’

Lyanna felt the sting of that bite, whether it was intended for her personally or not. Flushing hot and red, she spoke words she dreaded, yet honour demanded it:

‘Now Aerys is dead, will you ask to be reinstated as… as Rhaegar’s wife?’

‘Ask? Seven heavens, no!’ Elia put down her cup and took up a small red fan to cool herself. Her hair fluttered yet more and Lyanna envied the woman her unquestioned beauty. ‘But if he asks, if he commands it… he is my King and I must obey.’

Another bite, which left Lyanna drained and trying to keep her hands from shaking. ‘Yes, of course.’

Elia flicked her fan once more. ‘Targaryens have had two wives before.’

‘A wolf howled inside, possessive and angry. ‘Not for a very long time.’

‘Just so. Ashara seems to be wholly and entirely in love with your brother. I hardly imagined her capable of such single-minded devotion.’

The change of subject was abrupt but not surprising and definitely welcome. Brandon had returned to King’s Landing shortly after the Dragonstone Targaryens returned from Summerhall, and he was a little changed: still gregarious, but he spoke with more caution and tales of good behaviour reached her ears. The Wild Wolf, it was whispered, had sworn off all women. All women, that is, but one.

Lyanna remained cynical about her brother, but she accepted it with a smile and hopes that Ashara Dayne - as beautiful and charming and seductive as Brandon himself - might be the one to tame the wild Stark.

‘I have not seen much of Brandon lately. Between royal duties and Little Egg-’ Lyanna bit her lip. She’d forgotten that Elia was not presently quite a friend and should not be addressed like she was.

The heavy rock of doom in the pit of her stomach had lifted since Aerys’ death pressed again.

‘He is often with us here,’ Elia said as if Lyanna had said nothing untoward. ‘I like your brother very much and I hope he makes my lady a fine husband. Of course, he would have to ask first.’

Not for the first time, Lyanna dearly wished she and Elia could be uncomplicated friends able to gossip and chatter without politics lurking in the background. So she tried: ‘Brandon? Willingly propose marriage? I will believe it when I see it.’

Lyanna’s escort came to collect her, cutting off the possibility of more conversation.

Ser Arthur bowed low to Elia. ‘Your Grace.’

‘Is it time, Arthur?’ Lyanna asked, draining her cup of tea.

‘It is, Your Grace.’

‘Thank you for your hospitality, Elia, especially while you are settling into a new home. I hope you will be very happy here.’

‘As do I. I hope to see you very soon.’

‘Oh you shall. I will bring Aegon-’

‘No, I mean at the funeral. I must know how much like my dreams the reality will be.’

Lyanna curtsied and made no further reply. Ser Arthur escorted her along the short walk back up to the Red Keep, and the few smallfolk around bowed and curtsied to her with blessings from the Seven.

She was rattled. More than anything else, she needed to see Rhaegar as soon as she possibly could.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments and kudos so far! I am on a bit of a roll so can update a bit more often presently but I have less than no idea how long this might last.
> 
> Any comments, thoughts, questions and theories are welcome.


	33. Our Love Become a Funeral Pyre

Lyanna XVI

Lying in tangled, wretched sheets with no space between them was not the best place to broach the subject of Elia Martell, but Lyanna also knew that it was the only time they could speak privately. The least Stark-like part of her, the jealous and possessive wolf, also reasoned that she held more power of him now than at any other time. It was in her favour.

‘Rhaegar, my love, I visited Elia today.’ She was so close to his ear that her own warm breath rebounded back at her.

His brain was slow, drowsy and he hung on the precipice of sleep. ‘Is her new house suitable?’

‘Small but very pleasant. And she has possession of all the keys for all the locks. She likes it.’

‘Good.’ He burrowed deeper into his pillow.’

‘But she mentioned finding a husband-’

‘We’ll find her a suitable-’

‘No love, shush. She alluded to a conversation we once had, when you and I were barely married. About what would happen upon King Aerys’ death. If you would undo his commands and reinstate her as your wife-’

Rhaegar turned, quite awake now, and she could hardly begin to guess at his thoughts, so shielded were they. ‘What did you say during this… _conversation_?’

‘That I would stand by whatever decision you made.’

Violet eyes narrowed to dragon like slits. Rhaegar pulled his naked body out of bed and prowled for a moment. She normally took advantage of such moments to admire her beloved husband’s perfect, lithe form, but could not now, too full of fear. He slid into his robe.

‘I have things to do.’

Lyanna watched her king, husband, best friend and greatest love leave the room. The door had just closed when she burst into tears.

 

*

 

Rhaegar XV

 

“The Elia Question” had been temporarily dismissed when Rhaegar arranged for her total release, and although he knew he would have to do something, he had hoped to do so later. He needed to get his father’s body burnt; needed to get his projects begun; needed to move on with the prophecy and the future, before he could move onto such things.

He spent some time brooding at his desk, until the call to work grew too deafening. He worked through the newly arrived raven messages and was halfway through a proposal for sewage works before Jon came to collect him.

‘You look more relaxed, Your Grace.’

Rhaegar scowled. ‘Elia.’

Jon went very red, furious on Lyanna’s behalf. ‘Your Grace, that is- I mean-’

‘No.’ Rhaegar actually managed a chuckle at Jon’s misunderstanding. ‘I meant we must deal with the Elia Question now. She has made comments to Lyanna. Arrange for her to be brought- no, I shall go to her. Now. Today.’

‘Really?’ Jon frowned. ‘Aside from your needing to dress first.’

‘I won’t demand she return here so soon.’

‘Yet, your travelling there will be taken as-’

‘As what?’

‘There are already rumours you will be taking her back as your wife.’

‘And where did these rumours start?’

‘I am not sure.’

Rhaegar leaned back in his chair and pulled at a loose silk thread on the robe. The red twisted around his finger, cutting off the circulation until his fingertip went white. ‘Get Varys here. Now.’

 

*

 

King Rhaegar and three of his Kingsguard - Sers Arthur Dayne, Jaime Lannister and Oswell Whent - called at the house of Princess Elia Martell on the way back to the Red Keep from an expedition to examine a new and innovative fresh water fountain system in the north of the city.

Princess Elia was there, resplendent and radiant in her freedom. ‘Your Grace, I was not expecting you.’

She took him and the trio of guards into the sun-soaked courtyard.

‘No?’

‘Please, do sit. Wine, Your Grace?’

‘I would very much like a cup of the Summer Isles tea you introduced me to.’

‘As you wish. Sarai, if you would.’

A serving girl he did not recognise and in truth had not noticed, bobbed a curtsy and left with her orders.

They settled down, sat on either side of a finely decorated enamelled table that depicted a hunting scene: Dornish warriors spearing a great beast. After a few minutes of the most excruciatingly minute small talk, the tea was brought and Sarai bobbed again and left them to it. Arthur, Oz and Jaime waited out of earshot.

‘There is talk of you becoming my wife again.’ Rhaegar sipped at the tea.

‘No preamble, Your Grace?’

‘We should not have pretence between us, Elia. I know the rumours have come from his house.’

‘Not I!’

‘Of course not. Elia… I am so truly, deeply sorry for what my father put you through. It was terrible and I did what I could to mitigate it. Yet, I am now married to my heart’s greatest desire. I will not set her aside. Had I met her before you… no, I shall not deal in alternate histories. Life has unwound as it has. I am certain that I am not the husband you deserve, in any case.’

‘Why is that?’

Rhaegar raised an eyebrow. ‘I am in love with someone else, for one. But even before Lyanna… I married you because you were a princess and I could make my father angry. Your beauty and sweetness were advantages but I did not marry you for love.’

‘Nor you I. And yet, what of my future? The humiliations that man heaped upon me, even before he had the High Sept on declare our union invalid! And now - shall I return to Dorne unwanted and disgraced? My mother will be unhappy indeed. She already believes that the Targaryens see Dorne as inferior, a land and a people to be used and discarded at will. An unfortunate darkness in the south to be ignored when not needed. I understand how it works, _Rhaegar_.’

‘I will not have it so. I do not think of you or your fine mother or your people as _inferior_ and you know it. I will find you a suitable Hus-’

‘You’ll do no such thing! You are not my matchmaker, nor have you any understanding of who would make me a good husband! If I cannot be your queen-’

‘Queen? Not wife? Now I understand-’

‘Power is the only currency that matters, Rhaegar! This you know all too well.’

‘I know too that you are not failure. The Princess of Dorne will know it. My respect and esteem for you-’

‘Rhaegar, please-’

‘Do you really want to be my wife?’

‘Of course not! I have no intention of being ignored for the rest of my life. I thought perhaps…’ She trailed off and looked down at her slippered feet.

‘Yes?’

‘You could reinstate me, then, I would return to Dorne. Queen but not wife. I would cause you no trouble that way.’

‘Nobody will accept that! The court would expect you to remain even if-’ he stopped abruptly.

‘What? What?’

‘Everyone now knows my love for Lyanna. We have a son. I do not believe you would be considered the first wife now. And… you are not wrong about how some here view the Dornish. I would… I believe that your becoming my wife again old be a degradation to you and I will not allow that. I am not lying when I speak of my fondness for you. I Will not see you disrespected. And I cannot allow even a speck of shame or sadness to settle upon Lyanna. I love her. She is the other half of my soul. Sending for her - even though it was intended as punishment - was the only kind thing my father ever did for me.’

‘Your wolf is possessive,’ Elia said, and a hint of a smile worked upon her full red mouth. ‘I see it.’

‘She is indeed.

‘No I mean, I really do.’ She pointed at a dark red mark at the base of his throat, blooming since earlier in the day.

Rhaegar tugged at his collar. ‘Ah.’

‘Your wolf has teeth. Nay, Rhaegar… I do not want to be your _wife_. I will… all will be well, as your Lyanna says. Yet, I did so want to be a mother, if nothing else.’

‘And you will be. Lyanna and I will _help_ you find the right man. I am sure an honourable, good man exists; one of good name and breeding.’

‘Handsome, too.’ She drank the last of her tea and laughed lightly, catching Arthur’s attention from the door.

‘Yes, handsome. Perhaps wealthy?’

‘He need not to. I am rich enough for two. Kind, though. Thoughtful, considerate. Intelligent. Loving.’

‘We shall see. There is to be a tourney for my coronation, three moons’ hence. You will be our honoured guest. Perhaps amongst such merriment you will find this gallant fellow?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘In the meantime, I am at your service as your friend, Elia. And I know Lyanna will say the same.’

‘I have but one request.’

‘Oh?’

‘Talk to Brandon bloody Stark. I am tired of Ashara mooning-’

‘Ashara Dayne _mooning_?’ Rhaegar asked, glancing up at Arthur, who rolled his eyes.

‘Quite. He must marry her or leave her alone. It has been too long now.’

‘I will speak to him. Be well, dear Elia.’

 

*

 

Lyanna was pretending not to wait for him in their room.

‘I have only one love,’ he snapped before passing fully through the doorway. He was still angry at her lack of faith in him, after all they had gone through. ‘She is a Wolf of the North. I shall have no more discussion on this point. None from anyone.’

Relief flooded across her face and his brave woman sank to the floor, crying into her hands.’

‘I thought-’

‘You thought so little of me.’

‘No! Of me! She is beautiful and elegant. She is what a woman _should_ be and I am- I am uncouth and wild and not what a Queen ought to be. I thought… I mean, I could understand if-’

He met her on the floor, kneeling before her. ‘No more talk of it. All will be well.’

‘Are you certain? To have Dorne on your side will be most advantageous-’

‘We do not speak of advantages in this room, Lyanna. We do not speak of politics. We speak of the depth of my love for you. I will go to _war_ for you if I must. But I need not. You are my wife, and nobody may question that.’

‘Elia-’

‘Elia is our friend.’

‘I know.’

He pressed feather light kisses across her face. ‘It is getting late. Is Aegon asleep?’

‘We have time to see him before dinner.’

‘Then let us do so. Never doubt my love for you, woman.’

‘Nor you mine.’

Rhaegar’s face split into a smile and relief now flooded through him, like a fine wine warming him from tip to toe. ‘Oh, did you see?’

‘See what?’

‘The pyre is complete. The funeral is tomorrow at first light.’

 

*

 

King Aerys was cremated at dawn the next morning. The flame was touched to the wood by his son, King Rhaegar. Queen Rhaella was not in attendance, nor young Prince Viserys, but Queen Lyanna stood with her husband and - to the delight of gossips - Princess Elia Martell. None gave away their thoughts through their expressions, but a student of body language would note the relieved set of their shoulders as the architect of so much misery was finally sent from the mortal plane.

The day was absolutely clear and fine, a beautiful day more summer than spring. The scribes recorded that King Rhaegar gave a rousing eulogy for his father that managed to say absolutely nothing false and so said nothing complimentary, yet was not bitter or angry.

The gossips of the court were most intrigued that Tywin Lannister had travelled from Casterly Rock and stood with his daughter to the left of the King. He had been gone from court for many years, and his return was either for good or ill, but the return of that powerful, unyielding fellow meant _something._ The King had yet to announce who would act as his Hand. Would it be Lord Tywin, with his great experience of the role? Or an untested young friend?

King Rhaegar knelt with the High Septon as the flames grew, licking at the shrouded corpse. It did not take long for the pyre to catch and grow to a great raging fire in bright oranges and reds. They prayed conspicuously but quietly and slowly many of those in attendance imitated.

What they prayed for, nobody could say. Some would say it was for the Stranger’s mercy for the dead King. Others said that it was for the Stranger’s justice.

It mattered not: this was a new day.

 

*

 

The King and Queen rode through the City on their return to the Keep. He was beautiful as always, but silent and inexpressive, except to nod to the cheering crowds of small folk. Lyanna smiled down at them and asked her ladies to distribute coin amongst the people.

In the Holdfast, away from prying eyes, Rhaegar went to his mother.

‘It is done.’

‘I can see that.’

The red glow and billowing black smoke were easily visible and the smell of flame and ash carried on the wind.

Rhaegar embraced his mother and excused himself to find his wife.

Lyanna was waiting in their rooms, having swiftly changed from her complicated dress into a Lyseni nightdress which left almost nothing to the imagination.

He raised an eyebrow and double-checked the door was locked behind him. ‘It’s barely noon-’

‘Has that ever stopped you before?’

It had not at Dragonstone, but this was the Red Keep and-

‘You are the King, Rhaegar. If you cannot have your wife in the middle of the day, who can?’

‘Are you suggesting,’ he asked, removing his doublet with her nimble assistance, ‘That I owe this to the people?’

‘If you want to think of it that way… I thought more that these have been strange days and we are about to have yet more strange and busy days. I know that you have a tumult in your head and…’ She laughed. ‘I just want you, my love.’

He lifted her into his arms and carried her over to the bed, where they fell in a mess of limbs and lips and tangled hair. ‘Very well, my love. For you and the realm.’

‘You are so put upon, darling Rhaegar.’

‘I am indeed.’

Across the city, the pyre raged and burned low throughout the day. By sunset, it was a collapsed pile of white hot embers but the smoke cleansed the air and Aerys was finally, entirely gone.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, many thank yous for comments and kudos - I will write whether I get them or not, but it's always so nice and reassuring to know that people like it - and it's useful to know what y'all like most or don't like so much, or your questions.
> 
> Don't forget to bookmark, or subscribe, too!


	34. A Coronation

Cersei IV

 

The three moons between funeral and coronation passed quickly. It was both plenty of and not enough time for lords to arrive in the capital, for the city’s haberdashers, tailors, shoemakers, goldsmiths and jewellers to fulfil the orders that swept into their shops.

Cersei Lannister was at once glad for her father’s return to King’s Landing and irritated by it. The Lord’s presence gave her yet more standing at Court, and he brought new jewels and capacious purses for her use.

Yet. She could not scheme as she might have against Lyanna Stark. Any move against her would have to be in concert with Tywin Lannister’s wishes, and there was no good way to find out if this was the case.

Visiting Jaime was out of the question with the Lannister household surrounding her, so she took to employing the skills of her father’s latest squire in order to slake her varying thirsts.

She kept a lower profile than anyone thought possible, at least until her father’s motives and plans were clearer to her. Getting in Tywin Lannister’s way was never, ever worth it.

He had many guests, each lord more powerful than the last, each paying tribute to him. What they spoke of, she could not say and there was no way to eavesdrop in his solar.

Biding her time, Cersei sought to become indispensable to Queen Rhaella. That woman had been guarded around her for as long as she could remember, but was vulnerable to any act of kindness after the horror of her marriage. Every now and then, Rhaella would look at her as if she was her own mother, her once-friend, and Cersei used that to her advantage.

Lyanna Stark was not so easy. Cersei had tried to get in with her by offering her services to Prince Aegon.

‘Oh, Lady Cersei,’ Lyanna had laughed. ‘You are too young and lovely to buy yourself with an infant. No, that will be your lot soon enough. Enjoy your youth while it lasts.

Lyanna Stark was younger than her! How dare she speak so, and in front of other ladies!

Selyse Florent was demanding and bossy and didn’t want anyone near the prince except herself. Selfish bitch.

Cersei was granted permission to run around after Viserys - still a prince of the blood - although he was a rambunctious boy and much harder work that Prince Aegon would have been.

Viserys was also responsible for finding her secret listening space behind the Small Council chamber during a game of Hide & Seek. Viserys was too young to consider the dark space of other use, but Cersei Lannister knew an opportunity when she saw it, even if that opportunity was a dark, cramped space.

Each morning when she had no other commitments, she rose early to fold herself into the listening post. Rhaegar, that beautiful king of all kings, was at the head of the table. The Small Council itself was not yet set and each day he met with a varied group. Varys was always there, and once or twice she thought he looked directly at her hiding place.

On this particular morning, Lyanna Stark sat to the King’s right, listening quietly. Tywin Lannister sat to the King’s left, tall and upright as if tied to an iron pole. He wore a look of displeasure and scorn at all times that intensified every time he looked over at Lyanna Stark. He was angling to regain his old position as Hand of the King, without going so far to actually make any statement as such.

Mace Tyrell was present, likely at his mother’s demand, and said little; Robert Baratheon was present in body but not mind if his vacant eyed stare into his goblet was any indication.

Brandon Stark sat at the other end of the table so she could only see his back. He fidgeted a little but otherwise seemed to listen closely and made notes. Finally, Jon Connington hung on Rhaegar’s every word, unblinking and still. Sad little man, Cersei believed, to devote himself so entirely to another man.

Grand Maester Pycelle was in the room but had been demoted to sitting as far away from the King and Lyanna Stark as could be managed.

The group spoke of matters large and small, and not much to interest a girl like Cersei Lannister. She was on the verge of sleeping when the meeting ended with the scraping of chair legs against the stone floor. She roused herself in time to see her father catch the King’s attention.

‘Your Grace,’ Tywin was smooth and considerate as always. ‘Have you yet considered the matter of a permanent Small Council? Of a Hand?’

‘It is of utmost important, my Lord. A role for a trusted confidante, yet also demanding a logical and analytic mind. A man of competence, fortitude and dedication.’

‘Yes, indeed, Your Grace. I do not assume to know your mind-’

‘I am glad- I should not like any man to know my mind.’

Tywin continued as if Rhaegar had not spoken. ‘In the interim, and taking your own youth into account, I should like to offer my service to you. On a purely temporary basis, of course.’

‘Of course.’ Rhaegar ran a hand through his hair and Cersei had to bite back a sigh. ‘I shall consider it. Your offer is gratefully received.’

Tywin was not finished, and actually placed a bony hand on the King’s arm. ‘Your Grace, this is a complicated, difficult realm. It is not easy to manage. You would do so well to-’

Rhaegar pulled his arm away, purple eyes alive and narrow. ‘I shall think on it, my Lord. You have been gone from court for a long time and I do not wish to keep you from your home as you are so attached to it.’

Tywin rose up, knowing when to back away. ‘Thank you, Your Grace.’

He wasted no time in leaving, and Cersei was about to imitate her father when she saw Lyanna Stark return to the room and to Rhaegar’s side. Her hands went directly to his hair, fingers twining in it.

‘What did that sneaky bastard want?’

Rhaegar reported the conversation to her, at which point Cersei learnt that King Rhaegar did not hold her father in quite the esteem she thought.

‘It’s admirable, really,’ Lyanna Stark said.

‘Really?’

‘The absolute _gall_ of the man. It speaks to an arrogance rarely seen. Anyway, let us not speak of Lannisters. You have an hour before your favourite civil engineer arrives so… come and eat with us-’

‘I cannot. Things to read-’

Cersei watched, jaw dropped slightly, as Lyanna Stark bent over and put her hands in King Rhaegar’s lap. He responded by stretching out oddly, eyes closed.

‘Lyanna-’

‘Come and eat with your family.’

‘This is blackmail.’

‘If you say so, _Your Grace_.’

‘Well, I can hardly go _now_.’ He grinned at Lyanna Stark in such a way that made Cersei burn. ‘You’ll have to see your wicked scheme to its logical conclusion.’

‘I shall, my love.’

Cersei stared, transfixed and nauseated by turns as beautiful, shining Rhaegar and that woman Lyanna Stark comported themselves in a manner more suited to a whorehouse. Did she look like that with Jaime? It was entirely indecent. It would not be so foul and base when _she_ was Queen. She did not see the hypocrisy in seeking out her brother that evening, all the while scheming to expose Lyanna Stark’s wanton ways. Perhaps the Coronation Tourney would provide inspiration.

 

*

 

Three moons’ efforts had wrought change upon the land, and given the lords and ladies of the seven kingdoms time enough to arrive in King’s Landing.

The Tourney Grounds were almost finished: long wooden galleries and stands ready for decoration with the Targaryen vigils, banners, streamers and lanterns.

Squires barely slept to keep up with their many tasks; the warehouses and storerooms across the city were stuffed to bursting with wine, meat and treats; there was not a single solitary bed unoccupied in the guest houses and inns of the city.

The civic improvements already underway at least meant that human effluent no longer flowed freely through the streets and the air was sweeter than in recent memory, and the people praised good King Rhaegar and the wages that work gave to many.

Cersei kept a consciously low profile during the preparation time: observing, scheming, readying herself. Lord Tywin quickly became frustrated with Rhaegar’s prevaricating insistence on remaining without a formal Hand until coronation.

Queen Rhaella was leaving for Dragonstone after the coronation and as she was already large with child and disinclined to do much, Cersei’s duties with her were light, except when she was called upon to chase after Prince Viserys, who tended to be a handful away from his mother’s attentions.

Rhaella had taken to remaining a-bed many days, but she sometimes made it to a chaise in her private courtyard, and it was there that Cersei found her, two mornings before the coronation.

‘Cersei, will you be a dear girl and keep Viserys away from public areas today? He keeps getting in the way. He doesn’t mean to, but he’s a curious boy.’

‘Of course, Your Grace. Do you need anything?’

Rhaella smoothed the thin blanket stretched over her legs and the bump. ‘No, no. Don’t worry about me.’

Cersei fixed a smile onto her face and called for the little Prince. He arrived - eventually - holding his nurse’s hand like he was three, not nearly seven years old.

‘Now darling-’ Rhaella kissed him on the cheeks, ‘Be a good boy for Lady Cersei.’

‘Yes, mother.’ He bowed to her.

As soon as he and Cersei were out of sight, Viserys took off in a run. Seething, Cersei could only follow.

 

*

 

On the morning of the coronation, Cersei had a prime spot at the front of the Lannister delegation, beside Lord Tywin, and she watched the royal family process into the crowded Great Sept of Baelor, led by the High Septon and followed by a slew of religious people she neither knew nor cared to know.

The Kingsguard wore new white cloaks that nearly glowed in the summery light. Her Jaime’s hair was like spun gold: how perfectly he stood guard, how much finer he would look in Lannister crimson… yet when she was Queen, he would be always there for _her_ and nobody would get in their way.

Rhaegar had never looked finer, and all thoughts of Jaime fled as she gazed upon him. He wore black entirely, tunic tightly and carefully tailored to his long, lithe form and with stockings that showed off the sinew and muscles of his legs. His long silvery hair was loose, a stark contrast to his clothes. His purple eyes shone as he made a point of looking out upon the crowd, somehow engaging with them all. She tried to catch his eye, but could not.

She ignored most of the ceremony: the High Septon droning about duty and history and the Faith; then the crowning at last.

Rhaegar had a new crown: a simple gold circlet, in which seven coloured gemstones were set. Lyanna Stark’s crown was of the same gold, thinner and decorated with delicate golden roses with blue stones at their centres.

They looked magnificent, powerful and united. Cersei would soon set the world to rights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am indebted to the various L/R stories that came before this which feature brilliant and hilarious 'Cersei Eavesdrops And Is Not Pleased' scenes. I don't make any claim to originality on this point, but I rather just wanted to poke at her with a stick.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you've enjoyed this latest chapter! Viserys gets a POV next time, which may shed further light onto what you've just seen.
> 
> Concrit and the like is always welcome!


	35. The Run Around

Viserys I

 

Prince Viserys did not love his father. He had been told he must - even Mama had said so - but he did not. When Father died, he felt only relief. He knew how much pain Father inflicted on his Mama, even if he did not really understand it. He also knew how much Rhaegar despised him.

If Rhaegar was allowed to hate Father, so was he. He did not much like Mama being sad, but he also knew she wasn’t as terribly sad as people thought. Playing a game, she said… like being nice to Cersei Lannister.

‘She’s not very nice,’ Mama whispered to him just before bed one night, when she had been well enough to come and tuck him in. He’d asked why Cersei was always lurking now.

She kissed him softly on the forehead. ‘But she’s very useful. We will be very nice to her, and if we keep her busy, she won’t be a bother to Rhaegar and Lyanna, will she?’

Viserys wanted to be a good brother to Rhaegar and to Lyanna, who he thought was awfully nice in a real way, not like the courtiers who stared at him every time he was brought out. So, he spent his time running around the Red Keep, doing his very best to distract Cersei Lannister and her green eyes.

Viserys Targaryen had not quite seen seven namedays yet, but how satisfied he was to see Cersei Lannister out of breath and trying desperately not to be rude to him.

On the morning of the Coronation though, he was not allowed to play. He was forced into a hot bath - gods, he hated hot water! - and made to scrub and scrub, even his neck! He was forced into fancy clothes that made his skin itch, but he wasn’t allowed to scratch, and he was sprayed with sickly perfume. Cersei’s friend Melessa Florent was attending Mama that morning, and so also him, and she brushed his hair so much he thought it would fall out, but she put it in a very nice braid.

Oh, but he did like the golden band Mama gently placed onto his head. The gold was thin, not like her bigger crown, and had lots of dragons etched into it. He liked that very much, and stood as straight as he could when it came time to go to the Great Sept.

Crowds lined every street from the castle to the sept, all cheering and yelling for Rhaegar, and some for Lyanna. Goldcloaks kept them from getting to the royal family, but Viserys found he didn’t mind it much.

He didn’t like the Faith. They were either dull or snooty and talked about Mothers and Fathers and Crones all the time. The Sept was nice: the seven sided building with a ceiling so high that he could hardly make out the decoration over it.

He held Mama’s hand as they went inside and he didn’t like how all the people stared. The small folk outside was nice, but these people… he wasn’t at all sure he liked them.

Cersei smiled at him from where she stood with her father, and he wanted to stick his tongue out at her. The scary way her Papa stared at him sent any such notion clear out of his head.

He and Mama sat together on cold stone seats, looking out at the people. She held his hand and every time he tried to fidget, she squeezed.

Rhaegar looked like the very best king ever, and as he accepted his crown, Viserys swore to be just like him.

When it was done, Lyanna came to them, looking much prettier than ever before, her own crown gleaming. She kissed Mama, then him.

‘Are you bored, Vis?’ she whispered.

He nodded.

‘Nearly finished, sweet lad. Would you like to hold my hand as we leave?’

He certainly did. He bounced out of his seat and gripped her hand tightly.

Out on the sept steps, he couldn’t see a scrap of street floor for all the people: a shifting mass of limbs and cloth and noise.

‘King Rhaegar!’

‘Rhaegar, Rhaegar!’

‘Rhaegar, the first of his name!’

Rhaegar greeted the swarm with waves at first, then contented himself to stand and listen. He waved Lyanna, Viserys and Mama over to him, and the crowd roared approvingly when he kissed his wife.

Lyanna’s lady Selyse followed with Viserys’ nephew Aegon. He even had a tiny crown of his own, but it was a bit crooked.

‘How happy I am to have my family about me!’ Rhaegar said. He took Viserys’ hand from Lyanna, so that he could embrace his little brother.

‘Never, ever doubt my deep and abiding love for you, brother,’ Rhaegar whispered for Viserys’ ears only. ‘I will need you in the years ahead.’

‘I’ll grow up extra quickly-’

‘Nay, I shan’t have that. Grow up in your time. I can wait.’

Viserys was returned to Mama then, and Rhaegar took Aegon in his arms, which drove the crowds wild. It was another ten minutes before the crowd would quiet enough for Rhaegar to address them.

Viserys did not listen - it was all the sorts of things Rhaegar talked about a lot. Finally, they returned to the Red Keep, where they feasted and all the lords of the Seven Kingdoms pledged themselves to King Rhaegar, First of His Name. Viserys wasn’t fussed about who was who, because he was allowed to eat as much cake as he wanted.

He was sent to bed early after being sick. Too much cake.

He didn’t mind, because the Tourney started tomorrow and the sooner he went to sleep, the sooner it would be tomorrow.


	36. Many Ways to Joust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is almost starting to feel like momentum! Thank you so much for your comments and kudos so far - always welcome! And you can subscribe or bookmark or both. And tell your friends and...
> 
> I'm not good at promoting. Read it if you like, and I hope you enjoy it!
> 
>  
> 
> (oh, and if you find any random typos or obvious autocorrect nonsense, please let me know! I have proofed but things still slip through...)

Ser Arthur IV

 

In the eyes of the small folk, a tourney was a distraction from the banal and every day and an entertainment. For the great lords and nobles, a tourney was a chance to shine, an opportunity to make one’s name immortal.

For the King, it was a necessary evil that he would much rather have gone without.

‘It’s a waste of coin,’ he muttered, not for the first time.

To add insult to the King’s irritation, he was not permitted to ride. It was bad form to participate when you were the one giving the prize money.

Arthur was amused by Rhaegar’s petulance on the subject, although his wife and Hand of the King Jon were relieved to see the weary monarch kept out of danger.

It was Arthur himself who had the last word, during a quiet lunch in the King’s solar, just two days before the tourney and the day before the coronation: ‘Seven hells, Rhaegar! Let one of _us_ stand a chance!’

That made Rhaegar roar with laughter so hearty that little Aegon joined in from his little crib next to Rhaegar’s desk.

‘Oh, how his laugh brings me such joy,’ Rhaegar said when they had calmed. ‘Keeping him here with me WA    s an excellent idea.’

‘Doesn’t Lyanna mind?’

‘She enjoys having a little time to herself. She’s gone to one of her preferred orphanages today.’

‘So…’ Arthur bit into a piece of bread. ‘You will not joust?’

Rhaegar sighed. ‘Very well. I suppose it would not do to ride against my own Kingsguard…’

‘Indeed, _Your Grace_.’

‘You are a pest, Dayne.’

‘Yes, Your Grace.’

 

*

 

Rhaegar XVI

The Tourney was well-attended - few lords had left Kings Landing directly after the coronation. The stadium had been built to accommodate a royal viewing box above a gallery for the nobility, with terraces opposite for those ordinary folk who could afford tickets.

Aerys’ pyre had burnt so fiercely that it had caused the ground itself to sink, and the melee was to be held in the natural arena that now existed. Whether this was in poor taste or not, nobody cared to mention. The melee was won by Robert Baratheon, as everyone knew it would be, and after that, the main attraction - the jousting - began.

The Royal Box was festooned with Targaryen banners and sigils that framed the King and Queen where they sat and bestowed pleased smiles and engaging waves to the people. Viserys was allowed to attend a session each day, and his kinetic energy could hardly be contained. Neither King nor Queen minded that very much, and the child was allowed to enjoy himself.

Princess Elia Martell was their honoured guest, and everyone knew she was seeking a husband from amongst the highborn people present. Seeing her jovial with Queen Lyanna did much to quash most rumours about her and the man she briefly called husband. His constant attentions to the northern beauty beside him killed off the rest.

‘Rhaegar, my love,’ Lyanna murmured as they watched one of the many Freys fall to Arthur Dayne. ‘You and I may very much enjoy the way you rub your thumb against the back of my neck, but are you of the belief that we are currently invisible?’

His thumb ceased its movement. He glanced up and saw that a significant number of the small folk opposite were watching them rather than the joust. His heart clenched a moment, then relaxed.

‘I don’t care.’

 

*

 

After two days feasting and jousting, the final was held between Brandon Stark and Arthur Dayne, which inspired an immediate rift in the royal family.

At breakfast that morning, the bickering began upon waking and continued into their light, private meal.

‘Brandon Stark will pummel your knight!’

‘I’d like to see that! The Sword of the Morning has no equal!’

‘Says the man who beat him! Twice!’

‘So then, you know how good he is: he did not make it easy for me!’

She rolled her eyes. ‘By the old gods and the new, there’s no arrogance like Targaryen arrogance! Anyway, the North makes men strong. Indestructible!’

‘He was hardly indestructible when I knocked him on his arse! My Kingsguard are the best of the best and you know it!’

‘What will be our wager, husband?’ Lyanna asked, gleam in her eye.

‘If Brandon Stark wins,’ Rhaegar sipped at his glass to provide a pause while he considered it. ‘I will gift you all the Crownlands to the south of here. Including the Kingswood.’

Lyanna choked on the food she was eating. That was some of the most valuable land in the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms. ‘Is your confidence in Arthur’s ability to win, or Brandon’s _inability?_ ’

‘Both, perhaps.’

‘That is your half. What should mine be? I have no property of my own.’

With a glance at the servants nearby, Rhaegar leaned over the table and whispered in her ear. He took a great deal of pleasure in the blush that instantly blossomed across the face and spread down her neck and all the way under her neckline.

‘That,’ she sniped back. ‘Is hardly a fair trade.’

‘Indeed. Your prize is vastly inferior. So, what have you to lose?’

A raised eyebrow was her only reply then. Silence briefly settled upon them

‘The southern Crownlands?’ she asked.

‘If Brandon Stark wins.’

‘Then… I accept.’

They shook on it with a laugh and continued eating.

 

*

 

The tourney ground was rammed tight with people eager to see the final between North and South; between the King’s dear friend and the Queen’s brother. Rhaegar was unsurprised to see Brandon Stark wearing Ashara’s favour, but shocked to see a strip of orange silk almost hidden in Arthur’s sleeve.

He turned to Lyanna, and instead saw Elia, sat on Lyanna’s right, her gaze fixed upon Arthur. Interesting, but perhaps even more curious was Ashara next along, pale and nervous.

‘It’s her brother versus her betrothed,’ Lyanna whispered to him. ‘Either way, she has to console a loser… and risks someone she adores being gravely injured in the name of manly pride.’

Rhaegar had not really considered it from that angle, too caught up in his own concerns. He sent a prayer to the Warrior that Arthur would finish the joust quickly, without pain.

The joust began. Brandon had clearly been training hard: he was much, much improved since facing Rhaegar. After 16 lances were broken without a clear victory, both Stark and Dayne approached the King.

‘The gods have seen fit to favour neither man,’ Arthur swept down into a low bow then. ‘We therefore humbly ask for Your Grace’s judgement.’

‘Who am I to question the will of the Seven? I declare you jointly victorious, for I cannot and will not see Lady Ashara distressed for another moment.’

The crowd applauded politely, disappointed at missing out on an outright winner, but they were quickly won over when Arthur and Brandon jointly crowned blushing Ashara the Queen of Love & Beauty.

‘All very appropriate,’ Lyanna remarked. ‘As if someone planned it.’

‘They wouldn’t,’ he replied. ‘They’re both much too competitive.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘It is yet another way in which North and South are evenly matched.’

‘Yet I have lost out on my Crownlands.’

‘And I-’

‘Shush!’

‘We can come to an equitable agreement, I am sure.’

‘Oh,’ Lyanna’s lips curled into the slow, wicked smile he loved, that always sent his blood raging south. ‘Of that, I have no doubt.’

‘Must you truly go to Dragonstone with Mother? I cannot do without you?’ He entirely forgot where they were, but all others were focused on the Stark-Dayne activities.

Lyanna reached for his hand. ‘You are incredibly busy now. I shall only be gone awhile, just until your sibling is born.’

‘Too long.’

‘You will be too busy to miss me! This way, I will not feel so ignored.’

Rushes of guilt hit him all at once. She was correct. ‘I am sorry-’

‘I know that. This isn’t a punishment, sweet love. I understand. I also know she needs me.’

‘I need you!’

‘Yes, but her need is more pressing. You cannot fail to see how she wilts physically, even as her spirits rally with the malign influences removed.’

Rhaegar stiffened, unwilling to speak of such personal matters while so exposed to the people, and missing his own thoughts moments previously. ‘We will speak to that later. For now, we should congratulate our winners.’

‘Indeed. I think it very fine that I have not had to choose between brother and friend.’

Rhaegar quite agreed and wondered if it had been planned. If so, he did not mind at all.

 

*

 

The feast that evening brought find food, excellent music and dancing. The King would not be persuaded to sing, but did agree to open the dancing with his wife. The tune was quite lively and required the partners to dance close together. Lyanna’s choice, he knew.

‘The last time we were at a tourney…’ Lyanna’s lips were close to his neck as they danced, ‘…I fainted and found out we were to have a child.’

‘Yes indeed.’ The memory warmed him now, although at the time he had been chilled to the bone with worry and fear.

‘I hope I don’t faint this time. At least I can improve on that.’

They danced a little more, until the meaning of her words sank in.

‘Lyanna-’

‘Do not say a word. I do not want these craven schemers to know. Not after last time with the poison… I shall go to Dragonstone, safe and well-guarded until I return stronger and the babe is better established in my womb.’

‘We will speak more of this.’

‘I am sure we will.’

Indeed, the Targaryens did not remain much longer at the feast, and once alone in their chambers, he devoured her with warm kisses and hot embracing.

‘How long?’

‘I cannot be sure but… I think it must have been around the time of… well, of the funeral.’

‘Oh. Yes…’ He thought of one moment in particular when he found comfort in her arms while the pyre still burned and smoke filled the sky, how she dried his tears. He absently helped her out of her dress.

‘Rhaegar?’

‘Salt and smoke,’ he whispered, and a tendril of hope formed and fixed itself to his heart.

‘Sorry?’

‘Nothing… if you are leaving tomorrow, I must take advantage of tonight.’

‘Your wish is my command, Your Grace.’

‘None of that in here, wife. I am not your king; I am your husband.’

‘You are. My husband and-’ she gasped as he nipped at the soft flesh of her earlobe ‘-dearest, beloved Rhaegar.’

As was their habit, the dragon roared and the wolf howled.


	37. Two Queens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as always, for your lovely comments... and for your patience while I got a new chapter ready.
> 
> So, onwards, for plans are afoot.

Cersei V

 

Whatever Cersei had expected from Lyanna Stark’s departure; it wasn’t quite what occurred.

She imagined night after night of feasting, dancing and music: plenty of opportunities to seduce Rhaegar Targaryen to her side at last. She would prove herself a far superior hostess. A Lannister lady was a far better Queenly prospect than the wild and uncouth Stark bitch.

Instead, there was an almost total ceasing of monarchical entertainment. Beer and wine and food were still plentiful but the King himself did not attend those nightly meals. Brandon Stark and his new wife Ashara Dayne were more visible and all the talk of them was how they had shut themselves away for days after their Sept ceremony.

Mind you, everyone knew they’d been at it even before the Septon shackled them. He was the sort of man who spread his seed far and wide, and _everyone_ knew that Dornish women were incapable of acting like proper ladies.

Rhaegar was all over the place: inspecting the infirmaries and apothecaries; visiting orphanages; overseeing municipal improvement work across King’s Landing. He was shut away a great deal with Maesters newly arriving from Old town; with engineers and writers and singers; men of business and industry; with the new members of the Small Council.

Cersei knew her father was unhappy at not being named Hand of the King. Master of Coin was a prestigious and powerful role, but it was not _Hand_. They had been obliged to leave the Tower of the Hand for lesser apartments on the south side of the Keep. Jon Connington had hardly hidden his glee at being named Hand, and it was galling to Cersei and enraging to Tywin to see him swanning around the castle with the brooch attached to his cloak.

Cersei knew her father well enough to be sure he had a scheme in play, something to right the wrongs done to the Lannister lions. She was sure it had to do with her marrying Rhaegar, therefore her father’s announcement over dinner only a few weeks after the coronation came as a very great shock.

‘You will marry Robert Baratheon before the year is out.’

Cersei paused be for answering. Certain he was sincere, she threw her full plate in his direction. Food fell about them in a mess of potato, vegetables and gravy; the dish clattered to the ground several feet from Tywin.

His green eyes were narrow and hard. ‘A Temper is not becoming of a Lannister.’

‘Damn you to all the seven hells! You swore I would be queen!’

Tywin sipped from his golden goblet. ‘And you shall.’

‘But-’

‘There are any number of ways to skin a cat. Or a dragon. Or a stag.’

He DID have a plan! That it included a betrothal to drunken, whoring Baratheon was unfortunate, but there was plenty of time to avoid a marriage.

‘You know best, Father. I apologise for my unseemly reaction. It was a shock.’ She batted her eyelashes, knowing it would have no effect on him.

‘I do indeed.’

No more was said then, or even when Robert Baratheon dined with them the very next day. It was not so very long after that, that news and rumour of a brutish gang pillaging, raping and murdering in the Riverlands began to reach ears in King’s Landing, setting fear deep into the hearts of men, women and children.

Cersei was not afraid, even as her friends twittered and swooned at enemies real and imagined. Tywin had a _plan_.

 

*

 

Rhaegar only became more elusive as time went on. At least, to _her_. The King - any King - had never been as present to the smallfolk - those insignificant peons - since Aegon conquered.

He had made arrangements for all manner of city improvements, which her father said were costing a pretty penny, and he was often to be found out on the streets to see the progress being made.

In public, Tywin Lannister praised the King’s forward-thinking benevolence. To his daughter, he made it subtly clear that he thought Rhaegar Targaryen was a dreamer who might bring the realm to ruin. Yet even then, he grudgingly noted that if Rhaegar pulled off his plans, the city would be transformed and would likely make them more back in revenues.

Nobody could fault Rhaegar for his work ethic. At times he had even been seen helping workmen haul stones and dig ditches. Cersei couldn’t understand that at _all_ , and doubt began to creep into her mind about his suitability as a husband. The Targaryen madness was clearly in him, however deeply it might have been previously been buried.

Robert Baratheon was visiting King’s Landing from the Stormlands and, as her supposed betrothed, she was required to host him at times.

He stank like a brothel most of the time, and hardly seemed bothered by her.

‘Has anyone heard news of Lya- the Queen?’ he asked when walking out in the tiny godswood.

Cersei scowled. Must everyone be in love with Lyanna Stark? ‘No, my lord. I imagine she is enjoying herself on Dragonstone. It suits her personality.’

Robert chuckled. ‘I suppose you might be right. I always thought her too wild to survive long on an island like that.’

‘Then she wastes away. Either way, she is not here.’

‘Shame. She was a feisty girl before the King shackled her to Rhaegar. I’ve not seen her in some time.’

‘She has sadly not improved much.’

‘Careful, my lady. You speak treason.’

‘I mean no disrespect, of course.’

Robert raised an eyebrow. ‘Of course, Lady Cersei. You have nothing but love for your Queen.’

‘I have nothing but love for _my_ Queen.’ Her Queen being, of course, herself.

He clearly understood and she hated him for being more astute than he looked, or smelled.

‘I believe you have business with my father now,’ she said. ‘I would not keep him waiting.’

‘You are kind to think of me, my lady.’ He kissed her hand and she flinched when his head was bowed.

He strode away, every bit a dashing young blade. She hated him. Her father’s plan needed to favour keeping Rhaegar as King. Even if he was a madman who dug holes for fun.

 

*

 

Rhaella III

 

Rhaella had no love for Dragonstone until returning with Viserys, Lyanna and Aegon. It had been an oppressive place when Aerys was alive - although Aerys tended to make anywhere oppressive - but this time she returned with a lighter heart.

She was so very tired, though. She slept so much with this babe, as if the little one was actually draining the lifeblood from its mother.

Viserys poked his head into her chamber. She was still a-bed, although the sun was quite high in the sky.

‘Mama, do you want to walk with me?’

Bless Viserys. He had formed a habit of walking a loop through the castle, leading up to the volcano itself, and back again each morning. Every morning without fail, he invited his mother to come with him. When she said yes, he always walked alongside her, never running ahead or rushing her. When she said no, he ran with all the strength and energy a boy his age ought to have. He never seemed to mind her saying no, but was always pleased when she could say yes.

‘Not today, my darling. I’m sorry.’

Viserys climbed up onto her bed so he could kiss her. ‘That’s quite all right, Mama. You must concentrate on growing the child.’

Clearly someone had explained it to him thus, and his compassion warmed her heart.

‘I love you very much, Viserys.’

‘I love you too, Mama. I will wave at you from the mountain!’

She watched him scurry out of the room and wished she had strength in her bones to follow.

Lyanna visited soon after, frowning at her goodmother. ‘Did you sleep at all?’

‘Not really.’ Rhaella’s nightmares had not improved since her husband’s death. If anything, they had worsened. It was as if Aerys was reaching up from the seven hells to inflict his damage mentally as he could no longer do so physically.

‘They will fade in time, Mama. I am sure of it.’

Rhaella did not agree, but it was kind of Lyanna to comfort her so.

‘Now, Jessa is bringing you some food. You really ought to eat if you can.’

‘I shall, dear girl. I shall do my best.’ It was all she could do.

Rhaella knew she was on borrowed time. She was here to deliver the child, and likely no more than that. Her love for her brother-husband had died long ago, but they had been so closely bound that she was certain that her life would not be long without him.

Oh, how she hated and despised him, yet the child-

She would eat, for the child. She would rest, for the child. She would live, for the child.

She did not know for certain, but Rhaella Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, could not picture a life for the child which included her in it. Yet, she had not quite given up yet. She would try, for the child.


	38. Blight Rising

_Lyanna XVII_

 

Lyanna learnt to truly loved Dragonstone when she was there previously. Now, it was stifling, small and restrictive. She loved her good-mother and Viserys, and she was glad to be away from the viper pit of the Court. What she’d loved about Dragonstone was being there _with Rhaegar_ and he was not there. She hated being away from him, found her hands twitching for lack of him, found her nights plagued by dreams alternately horrifying and arousing, neither of which she could do a great deal about without him at her side.

Her brother Benjen had come for the coronation in place of their ill father, and had accompanied her to Dragonstone. He was much grown since they last saw each other and he did his best to occupy her time, but he could not resolve the real problem.

As the weather was good, they took to taking tea in the afternoon on the balcony of Aegon’s nursery. Benjen never hesitated to take to the floor to play with his nephew, while Selyse took the break as a chance to read and write letters or do needlework.

‘I had a letter from Ned today,’ Lyanna told him on this particular morning. They had been on Dragonstone for weeks and letters were starting to arrive. ‘He seems happy. What did you think when you were at Winterfell? About him and the Tully girl?’

Benjen dangled a toy above Aegon’s head. The child reached up and laughed loudly when the toy was tugged out of reach.

‘I think he and Lady Catelyn - he calls her Cat! - are well suited. Their son Robb is a credit to the Starks.’

‘That sounds like a political answer, Ben.’

‘It’s also the truth. What about Brandon and Ashara? I hardly saw them at their wedding. Too many people.’

‘I think they are very well-suited and I’m reliably informed that he’s remained faithful to her. Which I had not believed possible.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

‘I have it on good authority.’

‘Oh?’

‘Varys.’

‘Ah. True love must change a person.’

‘I suppose it does.’ She sighed wanly, missing her own. ‘Ashara is a fine, strong lady, and that must appeal to him. They build women differently in Dorne.’

Benjen poked Aegon’s soft tummy to make him laugh. ‘You’re different too. Less wild.’

Lyanna huffed and stretched across the sofa, trying to get comfortable. Her child was making itself known more every day. ‘I had no choice. I hardly get to ride and… the last King robbed me of… my innocence, I suppose.’

Benjen sat up, straight as a rod. ‘Did he touch you?’

‘Oh, no. I don’t mean that. I speak of his general crimes. He made us all… harder.’

Benjen frowned and she knew he was suspicious. She needed to change to subject before she blurted the full truth.

‘And I have to behave like a proper queen or the lords and ladies will be most displeased. And we must not have them displeased.’

A knock on the door then: Jessa.

‘I beg your pardon, Your Grace. Her Grace is asking for you.’

Lyanna jumped up. ‘Is she well?’

‘She’s awake.’

‘That doesn’t answer my question.’

‘No, Your Grace.’

‘Very well. Selyse my dear, will you watch over Aegon? Make sure Benjen doesn’t try to make him fly or something?’

Selyse put down her embroidery. ‘Of course, Your Grace.’

 

*

 

Lyanna felt short of breath as she made the short journey to Rhaella’s chamber as her unborn child pushed its foot up towards her chest.

Old Nan used to say that all children were different. It had been to describe how it was possible she and Brandon could be such different creatures compared to quiet Ned, but she now knew it to be true of her own children, even down to her pregnancies.

Aegon had been easy in comparison to this one, who kept her up at night, shivering and sweating at times, sick at others. This one could also be so still at times that she would start to worry that something was wrong. Aegon had started moving one Day and never really stopped from first flutter to last strong kicks.

Aegon had given her a craving for Dornish elderberries; this one had her constantly demanding meat, until the steward of Dragonstone was sending to the mainland once a week.

She also started dreaming more vividly this time. Aside from that one terrible dream at the Tourney at Harrenhal, her Aegon-carrying dreams had been ordinary. This time she was subjected to terrible dreams: Rhaegar dead in any number of scenarios but usually lying in a river of blood; also of the North, even beyond the Wall itself; of a dark lad she might mistake for Ned if not for the piercing, thoughtful gaze the boy inherited from Rhaegar. It was, she knew with a certainty bordering on fanaticism, her son.

For the first time, she took Rhaegar’s prophetic studies seriously. He had calculated that this child was conceived during their frenzied coupling on the night of Aerys’ funeral. Rhaegar had taken to muttering _“salt and smoke”._ She wished to be home with him for many reasons, but particularly to prevent him from being consumed by this obsession of him.

His frequent letters made only oblique references to the prophecy, and he was always careful to ask after Aegon, but Lyanna knew where his thoughts truly lay. It was one of the few things about her husband that caused her pain: she knew he didn’t _intend_ to slight their oldest son, but she could not forget that momentary disappointment of his when Aegon was born on a bright sunny day.

She needed to get home, and soon. She did not want to give birth on Dragonstone, not if Rhaegar was not there.

Rhaella’s chamber door was open. The lady herself was sat up in bed, her rounded belly huge in comparison to the rest of her. She smiled brightly and Lyanna was glad to see it.

‘Hello my dear, come in.’

‘You look well.’

‘I slept well, for once, and I have a letter from Rhaegar.’

‘Excellent.’

‘I am worried about him. He seems to be working very hard.’

‘I agree.’

‘And this… what did he call him? The Blighted Knight.’

‘Yes.’

‘He didn’t say much. I could tell he didn’t want to worry me.’

‘If he didn’t want to worry you, he shouldn’t have mentioned him at all.’

‘I like to hear about what’s going on.’ Rhaella’s eyes fluttered a moment. ‘Good and bad. He says Cersei Lannister is sniffing around.’

‘He didn’t tell _me_ that.’

Rhaella smiled softly. ‘Well no, he wouldn’t. He wants you here with me, not marching back to pull Cersei’s hair out at the root.’

‘I wouldn’t.’

‘No?’

‘No. I’ll yank her fingernails out instead.’ Lyanna grinned wickedly a moment. ‘I jest, good-mother. I promise. But that woman-’

‘I know. He also mentioned there is a tentative betrothal between Cersei and Robert Baratheon so soon she’ll be out of the way in the Storm lands.’

‘She won’t go. She’s a Court Lady through and through.’

‘Yet Robert is the sort to expect his wife to stay at home.’

Lyanna rolled her eyes. ‘Gods, I remember.’

‘You had a lucky escape.’

‘I was incredibly rude. I’m lucky my father is an understanding sort.’

‘The gods willed it.’ Rhaella sank into the pillows a little, her energy already waning. ‘One way or another, you and Rhaegar were formed for each other.’

Lyanna agreed but did not reply: she did not trust herself to speak without crying.

 

*

 

Rhaegar XVII

 

Rhaegar had quickly established a routine since his family’s departure for Dragonstone. He rose early to spend an hour in the training yard with the Kingsguard; the morning was spent with the Small Council or hearing petitions in the Great Hall. When not out and about making inspections of the various works around the city, his afternoons were burnt away in the library poring over prophetic and historical texts.

He had sent for documents from all corners of Westeros and further afield and wanted still more.

His evenings were spent quietly where he could: dining with Brandon and Ashara; or the Kingsguard. He dared not invite Elia to any such events except for larger feasts, for fear of sparking rumours.

At all times, his heart and a portion of his attention was with his wife in Dragonstone, and their son, who was growing every day, and the child yet to born. As devoted as he was to his many duties, he never totally surrendered curiosity about what his family were doing in that same moment.

The King received his first reports of a rogue knight not long after the ship to Dragonstone sailed out of Blackwater Bay.

Jon had come to him in his solar, accompanied by a young squire who trembled from tip to toe.

‘Tell the King what happened, Squire Tomken.’

The boy could not look at Rhaegar, let alone speak. Rhaegar poured a goblet of wine and handed it to him. ‘You have nothing to fear here. Come, sit with me.’

‘Tomken squired for Lord Eustace Brune, Your Grace. They were riding from Dyre Den to Riverrun when they were attacked.’

‘By whom?’

‘A demon!’ Tomken said, rousing from his stupor even as his voice was no more than a fearful whisper. ‘As tall as a house and wide as a horse. Stronger than ten men. Twenty. He had a sword longer than I’m tall. He- he-’

It could hardly be true, but Rhaegar knew that the boy was telling the truth as he knew it.

‘What happened?’

‘He stopped up on the road. Took all the gold and valuables we had. And then he killed everyone. Except me.’

‘Why not you?’ Jon asked, as gently as he could.

Tomken fell into himself, a ball of lad tear stained and broken. ‘He said I was to tell the story of how one knight took on twenty men… that… that he would return.’

Rhaegar grasped Tomken’s hands. ‘Listen to me: you are a brave young man. You have suffered terribly and we will do what we can for you. You did nothing wrong-’

‘I did nothing right!’

‘You did nothing wrong,’ Rhaegar repeated firmly. ‘Survival is no crime. Jon, have young Tomken taken care of, then return here.’

‘As you wish, Your Grace.’

Them gone, Rhaegar turned back to the ancient parchment on his desk. Azor Ahai-

He could not concentrate, not while this new threat loomed so large. Jon returned quickly.

‘What do you think, Jon?’

‘I think it is a story. Except-’

‘Except?’

‘A boy like that cannot lie. It isn’t in him. The story is unbelievable, tis true, but he is not lying to you.’

‘Send someone trusted out to investigate.’

‘Yes, Your Grace.’ Jon moved to go, but Rhaegar raised a hand to stop him.

‘I do not like this. Not for the strangeness of this knight, although it is strange. No, I feel there must be something more afoot here. Be cautious.’

‘We do not wish to cause panic, Your Grace. It will be done as you wish.’

 

*

 

Jon arranged for a second son of Lord Rosby to take a cohort of men out to find the Blighted Knight. It was their failed expedition that brought the story to a wider audience and whoever it was that named him the Blighted Knight.

Panic followed. Those who had planned to leave King’s Landing for their country homes opted to stay. Food stores started to reduce in the face of unexpected populace and the disrupted trade routes. The Blighted Knight travelled great distances, leaving horror in his wake, along with someone left to tell the stories.

The tales were simple: a band of rampaging bandits led by a huge, mysterious man who had all the appearance and more importantly, training of a knight.

Nobody knew his true identity and the tales spoke of a man more brutal even than the Smiling Knight. He killed without consideration, remorse or pause.

The King then sent experienced, accomplished Ser Randyll Tarly and a group of good men but three weeks later one returned, spared by their opponent only so he could report what had occurred.

Ser Jonothor Percelyn was a minor knight in service with Tarly and was badly beaten. He had been brought back to King’s Landing after being forced to seek help at an inn. His hands had been stomped and every finger was broken. Infection was setting into the lacerations across his face and arms and he walked with a decided limp. He had been on the road for 12 days without pause when he finally stood before the King.

‘Your Grace, I must apologise for my appearance. I-’

‘You need not apologise, good Ser. This can all wait until you have been seen by the Maester.’

‘I would rather speak now, Your Grace. It is of paramount importance. The small folk call him The Blighted Knight and he is indeed a blight upon the Seven Kingdoms. He kills without regard to a person’s station or the risk they pose to him. I saw- I saw him kill children, sire!’

A wave of mutterings rose then, but King Rhaegar silenced it with a single look then bade Ser Jonothor continue.

‘He killed old people; he burned fields and left livestock dead in their pens. He would starve those he does not murder. Your Grace, you must know that Lord Tarly and his men fought boldly and bravely, but they were no match for the Blighted Knight and his cronies. I survived only that I might bring his message to you.’

‘What is that message, Ser Jonothor?’

‘He is without morals or thought, he _is_ destruction. I think he must see himself as the Stranger personified. His message was simple: you will know not rest or peace for as long as he lives; loss and sorrow will become as brothers to you; he will take from you everything you have ever held dear. He will see your wife dragged-’

‘That is enough,’ Jon Connington interrupted. ‘What of his appearance, Ser?’

Ser Jonothor’s swollen eyes closed a moment and he shuddered. ‘He is huge. The largest man I have ever seen. The men said he was ten feet tall, yet tis no exaggeration. He rode a war-beast of twenty hands at least. Your Grace, I do not overestimate to excuse our losses. We failed against this mountain of a man; His armour was black - blacker than your own, for it had not decoration. He had no sigil, no banner. His own terrible presence is enough, but I can say no more of his appearance for he never removed his huge black helm. I wish I could help more, but…’ Ser Jonothor faded then, all his information given. He had clearly taken everything he had within himself to survive this long, and his strength was ebbing quickly.

‘You have done well, Ser. Now my Lord Hand will see you taken care of. If we can be of assistance to you-’

‘My only request, Your Grace, is that you might allow me to see to the care of the widows this Blighted Knight has created! I would not see them set to trouble-’

‘We will ensure they are well-situated. Be not afraid.’

Ser Jonothor had to be carried out of the Great Hall once his duty was discharged. The audience around spoke loudly, fearfully.

The King rose from the Iron Throne and wasted no time in dismissing them all. He strode through the Keep to the Small Council chamber, where Lord Brandon and his other advisor's awaited.

‘Lord Hoster is sending daily ravens with his complaints,’ Jon Connington said, settling into his place in the Hand’s chair.

‘I cannot blame him. Shall I send an army after one man? How can I fight a man who has no aim?’

‘He has one aim, Your Grace.’ Tywin Lannister sounded a grim note as always. ‘He seems determined to cause you pain.’

‘Why? Who is he? What have I done to him?’

‘You are the King,’ Brandon said. ‘For some, that is enough.’

‘I will think on it, and if any of you can think of a way to settle this without setting the Riverlands to the sword, I will hear it.’

 

*

 

Rhaegar stumbled with uncharacteristic mis-poise to his rooms some hours later. The Small Council had been worse than useless, in his opinion.

All he could think was that such a man as the Blighted Knight could not be so brutal without reason. He did not do anything for coin or to seize land, he took no women. What was his cause?

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading and for commenting, if you do!


	39. Happiness Past and Future

Elia II

 

Elia Martell had been in love only twice in her life. Once, with a boy she met at the Water Gardens. It was an unbearably hot day and he has splashed her with cool water every time she frowned. She was four years old.

She had also fallen in love with her dearest friend’s dashing brother. She was sixteen then, and more than ready for a great love affair. It was not until years and years later that Princess Elia discovered the two were in fact the same person. By then, Arthur Dayne was promised to the celibate life of a Kingsguard and she was being encouraged to catch the eye of Prince Rhaegar while he visited Dorne.

Pretending that she was not in love with Arthur was easy: she simply pretended it was not true and had never been true. She could school her expression into neutrality and she could compartmentalise her heart. Easy. She had tried with Baelor Hightower, and might have had a chance if not for Oberyn’s mockery… The roads not taken occasionally intrigued her to the point of complete distraction.

Elia and Rhaegar had come to an understanding during their brief marriage: the would be faithful to each other to avoid scandal but they would not lay claim to the other’s heart.

Now she was a cast-off looking to find a suitable husband, and Elia’s romantic and matrimonial thoughts were all of Arthur. Like a dam, the flow of her emotions could not be stemmed having allowed it for even a moment.

He had only grown in statute since their passionate, secret summer together. He was made of sterner stuff than she and gave absolutely no indication that his heart was touched.

The Tourney brought no useful prospects - all too old, too young, too awful or just simply too low-status - and with the departure of Queen Lyanna to Dragonstone she lost her freedom to visit the Red Keep without kicking up yet more scandal.

Ashara was now busy with her husband and with establishing a home of her and dropped by when she could… but Elia was still much the outcast she had been when living in her silk-draped prison.

Ashara was now with her and talking nineteen-to-the-dozen about one thing or another. ‘I don’t like the villa we saw yesterday. It’s too dark. We Dornish women need sunlight! I want the house next door to you. I’d be close to you then. I worry about you.’

‘Who owns it?’ Elia asked, skipping past the worry.

‘Oh… somebody… Baelish or something. Now, Brandon says you are to dine with us tomorrow night.’

‘In the Keep? Will the King be present?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I really ought-’

‘Along with nineteen other people. Come.’ Ashara folded her arms over her chest and would brook no argument.

 

*

 

Elia arrived at the Red Keep the next evening and Turner heads. Not the most beautiful of her family, Elia was still an unquestionable beauty. The stares were for more than her face, figure or dress. Each stare darted to the King and back to her, as though they could decode an affair in that once glance.

She greeted king Rhaegar first, as custom demanded, and then settled down with Ashara, who had been installed in a comfortable chair by the fire before the meal.

‘You look awful, Ash! What ails you?’

‘Nothing _ails_ me.’ Ashara emphases the word even as she hissed it through clenched teeth. She was not quite well.

Elia’s eyes brightened as she analysed her friend’s words. ‘A child? Truly?’

‘Yes. Only Brandon and I know so far. We… we don’t want a fuss.’

‘Of course.’ Elia did her mathematics: Ashara need to keep it quiet for another moon or two, to obfuscate and deny. Did it matter, now that they were married? Perhaps not to Elia, but to some… ‘I’m very happy for you, dear Ashara.’

‘Thank you. Tis not why we married, please know that! Brandon and I were always going to marry! I knew it even before he had the old King fix the Catelyn Tully problem. I knew even before Brandon knew.’

Elia made no comment to that. Ashara’s determination regarding Brandon Stark had been uncharacteristic of her at first. After all, Ashara Dayne was _the most beautiful woman_ of their age, and had never been shy out seeking romance or even just gratification.

Still, Elia knew that great devotion beat deep in the hearts of House Dayne once engaged by a truly worthy figure. Whether lusty, inconstant Brandon Stark was worthy, she still had not decided. She had engaged several spies to establish him fully in her mind, especially when she had no freedom of movement, and while each reported that he had not fallen back to his notorious habits since meeting Ashara, she could not be satisfied and had him checked every few moons.

She grasped Ashara’s hand now and fought against the sting of jealousy in her breast. Ashara would be a mother; Lyanna already was. This was not the life she had agreed to.

Elia had ever wanted to be a mother and during the hottest months of her seventeenth year, she could not have imagined _this_ to be her fate: an empty home, bed and womb. She was torn from these dark thoughts when they were called to the table itself. Whether by chance or design, she was seated between the Dayne siblings: Ashara to her left and Arthur to her right.

Dinner was pleasant, friendly and low-key, and held in a smaller dining room in the Keep. She listened more than talked, hearing with horror of the Blighted Knight’s continuing crimes.

‘He burnt the Sept of-’

‘Killed a Septa and a group of children!’

‘He kills all, or he leaves one maimed person to report the story.’

‘How many lords have sent men against him? Yet none return.’

‘The King’s riders to Dorne have yet to return; they left just after the coronation.’

‘He must surely be the Stranger come to life!’

The King finally spoke: ‘Nay, he cannot be. The Stranger takes life but he does not murder. The Stranger is the ultimate justice, but he is not an assassin. We will deal with the man under the armour. For he is merely a man; he can bleed and he will bleed. That is the Stranger’s justice. We will have justice.’

Silence. Targaryen fury swirled around him, the soft halo of light around his silvery hair only adding to his mystique.

‘How shall we take him down?’ he now asked of his closest advisers and friends.

‘We will ride against him!’ Ser Barristan declared with a thump of fist on table.

‘I fear brute force alone cannot stop him,’ Arthur Dayne replied softly. ‘It will take cunning, strategy. Consideration.’

‘Indeed,’ Rhaegar stared into the candle’s flickering light. ‘We will consider all possibilities. No idea is too foolish to bring to us. For now, we will not spoil another moment with dark topics. Lady Ashara, have you any amusing tales? I imagine marriage to Brandon Stark is fertile ground for humour.’

All present laughed heartily, Brandon most of all. ‘Yes, Your Grace. My lady is working hard to civilise me.’

‘Not too civilised,’ Ashara returned with a sly smile that almost all at the table recognised for its true meaning. ‘As for fertility, Your Grace, Lord Stark provides much satisfaction.’

They all laughed again, and a bawdy, good-natured humour settled over the room.

Elia was so wrapped up in the jokes that she did not even see Rhaegar leave after the main course was served and finished.

‘He slipped away,’ Arthur whispered. ‘He has much work to do. And he doesn’t like this sort of thing.’

‘Especially without Lyanna.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Their devotion is admirable. I am glad to be set aside, strange as it may seem. Yet I do not feel quite free.’

‘No, Princess?’

‘Not when my dearest love is still kept from me.’ Beneath the table, she squeezed his hand. ‘Even after all this time.’

She knew he could not respond openly and lightly enjoyed seeing the tiniest of roses rise on his cheeks.

‘Their devotion is admirable,’ he echoed. ‘I am proud to serve my kind, at last.’

‘You must always serve?’

‘The oath I took is a lifelong one.’

‘The king would release-’

‘I would never ask!’ He pulled his hand away. ‘I must attend the King now. I beg you, excuse me, Your Grace.’

He did not look back.

 

*

 

Elia spent the following two days shut away at home. She wrote letters to her mother and brothers, she meditated upon her situation. She saw none, not even Ashara, until she dressed for court and walked to the Red Keep. Her fine orange and gold dress was designed to turn heads and so it did, from the small folk in the streets, to the fine folk in the Great Hall.

The King was hearing petitions and raised an eyebrow to see her join the queue. He listened patiently to the young farmer petitioning him for assistance against a rival and gave his judgement.

‘We see Elia of House Martell wishes to petition us,’ he called out. ‘I would not keep a Princess waiting. We hope our petitioners will understand her taking precedence.’

Nobody dared object even if they did.

‘Your Grace,’ She sank low in a curtsy. ‘I know that the question of my future has weighed upon you for some time. I have myself been considering the best course of action and I believe I finally have the answer that will be in the highest interests of myself, my house and your own royal majesty.’

‘Yes, Princess?’

‘I will return to Dorne, with your permission, of course. You have been a kind and thoughtful host, and King’s Landing has of late become a fine place to call home. Dorne is my heart, and I wish to return to her golden sands and bright sun.’

‘You do not need my permission to return home, Your Grace. You are no longer a prisoner of the crown, and we apologise for the insult to your freedom in years past. House Targaryen is a friend to Dorne, now and forever. Go with our best wishes for your future happiness, dear friend.’

She admired Rhaegar’s ability to turn a pretty and politically helpful phrase with so little notice. She curtsied again. ‘Thank you, Your Grace.’

‘We ask only one thing,’ he added. ‘Will you wait until the Queen has returned from Dragonstone? She would not want to miss you.’

‘As you wish, Your Grace.’ She waited only a moment for him to nod his dismissal and left in a swish of orange.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always for the comments and kudos - I can hardly believe the hits and kudos this has had so far!
> 
> Anyone fancy doing artwork for any scenes?
> 
> Updates might slow down (again) as I've embarked on a pretty intense training course and my free time is yet more eroded.


	40. Fade Out, Fade In

Viserys II

 

Dragonstone was much nicer than he had thought it would be. Rhaegar sent a tutor with them and he wasn’t at all like the stuffy maesters he’d had before. Every morning he started with history, then sciences. In the afternoons he was allowed to play and his tutor even had him trying out a little practice sword, which Mama didn’t like but he loved.

Mama stayed in her chambers almost all the time now, but Lyanna came to watch him in the yard. Nobody stared at him at Dragonstone and sometimes he even thought he heard dragon ghosts whispering to him.

He wasn’t sure how long they’d been at Dragonstone, but it had definitely been “a while” when a massive storm hit the island.

Thunder and lightning raged and raged all day. Clouds kept the sky so dark that it felt like night-time. The storm carried on through the night, moon hidden from sight by unseen thunderclouds. Heavy rain lashed against the thick stone walls of the castle and a bitterly cold wind battered the castle and set a chill in his bones.

A horse got so spooked that Kevan the Stable master had to kill it.

Viserys hid under his bed, wrapped in a blanket to stay warm, and tried valiantly not to cry.

When he woke up the next morning, the sky was the clearest, lightest blue he had ever seen. The sea was almost perfectly still.

Lyanna came to fetch him. ‘Viserys, sweet boy. You must come and see your Mama and sister.’

A sister! He had a sister!

Lyanna had dark smudges under her eyes and her grey tunic was covered in blood. Viserys was young but not stupid: he knew to fear what was behind his mother’s door.

Inside the room was dark and there was a horrible smell that made his tummy turn over.

Mama was in bed. ‘Darling boy.’

He had seen her sick before. He had seen her beaten, battered and bruised without knowing what that truly meant. This was the very worst. Her skin was like yellow parchment and she could not even lift her head off the pillow.

From habit, he reached up and kissed her on the cheek.

Mama’s voice emerged as a weak croak: ‘You must be a very good boy. You must look after your new sister. She will need you, my darling. Never doubt my love for you. It is as deep as the oceans… I waited so long for you… Viserys, my darling.’

Her eyes fluttered closed and Lyanna tugged him away.

‘Mama?’ he asked.

‘She’s very sick, my love. She is dying. Do you know what that means?’

‘I’m not stupid!’ Tears smashed his eyelids.

‘I know. I’m very sorry.’ Lyanna brushed his hair away from his face and kissed his cheeks. ‘Would you like to meet your sister?’

He did not really, she was ruined by mama’s fatality, but he let Lyanna take him to the crib, where a tiny, red-faced baby slept soundly. She was snug in a Targaryen black-and-red blanket. A tuft of silvery hair was already in place on her head.

Even above the grief he already felt for his not-quite-dead mother, the baby was a Targaryen like him and he felt a surge of something he could not understand. One day, he might recall it as pride.

‘Mama says her name is Daenerys,’ Lyanna told him in a soft whisper. ‘Isn’t she lovely?’

‘Yes.’ He wasn’t sure if he meant it. Had he looked like this once? He peered close into the crib. ‘Daenerys.’

‘Run along now, love. Jessa will help you dress and you can come back to see Mama after you eat something.’

He obeyed, but took one last look at his mother. He never saw her again until she was laid out in the Great Sept of Baelor with painted stones on her eyes and flames licking at her slippered feet.

 

*

 

Lyanna XVIII

 

For all that she missed Rhaegar in King’s Landing, Lyanna was glad to have been at her good-mother’s side when the moment came. Rhaella deserved that, at the very least.

The daughter Rhaella had prayed for, longer than she ever remembered, slept peacefully in a crib close to the bed.

‘Look after her…’ Rhaella could barely breathe, let alone speak, and the words emerged as faint rasps. ‘And Viserys. He’s a good boy… be a mother to them, please. Please Lyanna…’

‘I promise it.’ It was one of the easiest promises she had ever made.

A fierce fire kindled in her heart for the two youngest children of Rhaella Targaryen, almost an equal to the force of her love for the eldest child of Rhaella Targaryen.

‘I’m so glad he has you… I was waiting for you such a long time.’ Rhaella winced painfully and tried to shift herself in the bed but could not. ‘Now, give me the girl… I have just enough strength.’

Rhaella did have strength to hold her daughter, but not for long. Her arms lost the last of their tension and Lyanna scooped too-tiny Daenerys into her own grasp. The wet nurse would arrive soon, but as Lyanna held her good-sister, she wished she had milk yet to assist. The girl was already more child than sibling to her.

Daenerys’ purple eyes stared up at her but she did not cry, this motherless child, not then and hardly at all in the days to come, as calm in temperament as the storm she arrived in was fierce.

 

*

 

The royal family returned to King’s Landing as soon as they could, with Rhaella’s body in a hastily-built coffin, and Daenerys in Lyanna’s arms.

The King met them at the dock, bedecked in black and red as always, but notably lacking thick armour. He had Ser Oswell and Ser Arthur flanking him, but otherwise the security around him was minimal. His greeting was as formal as expected, but he did not say a word as they silently moved through the city to the Red Keep.

Ser Oswell had Vhagar at his side and even in a rather advanced stage of her pregnancy, Lyanna eagerly mounted her beloved horse.

Unable to greet Rhaegar as she would like due to both propriety and his apparent unwillingness to come too close, she lavished affection on the horse.

‘You missed me, didn’t you my love?’ she asked hag

 Vhagar merely flicked his mane as they set off back to the Red Keep.

If Lyanna had ever doubted Rhaegar’s devotion to his duty while she was gone, the city provided evidence everywhere she looked.

Long gutters had been cut on each side of the main thoroughfares and water flowed  along them constantly washing muck and filth away. The city was full of the sound of work: stone-cutting, wood-working, barked foreman’s orders all about.

The people stopped to kneel to the King as he passed, and he did not fail to acknowledge them all. At the doors of an orphanage, a gaggle of children waved eagerly to the King, only to become even more excited to see the Queen.

Lyanna watched as Rhaegar stopped and talked to the children, each in turn. Still carrying the little princess, Lyanna bent down to present the infant to the curious children.

‘We missed you, Queen!’ One little girl called out. ‘You didn’t forget us?’

‘I did not!’ Lyanna replied, beaming for her benefit despite her travel fatigue. ‘I am glad to be back and soon I will come to visit you all, if you would like.’

The children made it very clear that they absolutely wanted her to visit as soon as she possibly could, and then it was time for the royal family to continue on their way.

The Red Keep were guarded but the gates were open. The courtyard was a hive of activity, having been taken over more for the central operations of all the city improvement works.

Inside, the Silent Sisters were waiting in the Great Hall and took Rhaella away. A new wet nurse - a kindly young Dornishwoman called Wylla - came forward to take the princess.

Lyanna hesitated a moment, but handed her over, having become incredibly attached to the serene infant. Aegon and Selyse followed, with Viserys in grumpy tow. He was quietly distraught about his mother and had never dealt well with seasickness.

Still, the King did not speak. Was it because they were still in public or for some more difficult reason? He perched himself on the Iron Throne with far more grace and ease than Aerys ever had, while Jon Connington stood at the side, the mark of the Hand of the King shining upon his breast.

‘Welcome back, Your Grace.’ Jon sounded not remotely happy to see her and still held a hint of bite when using her title.

The King glared, held a hand up to silence him, then swept off in the direction of the Holdfast.

By the time Lyanna had caught up, Rhaegar was in their room and had wrenched his cloak off and was working on the buttons of his jerkin.

‘Rhae-’ she did not even get to the second syllable of his name before he was upon her, frenzied, hot and lustful.

‘Breathe!’ she jested when she had a moment to breathe herself. He did not pull away unit she forced him to. ‘Rhaegar, my love, what on earth?’

‘I missed you.’

‘Yes, but-’

‘Can a man not miss the wife he has not seen in so many moons?’

‘He can, but-’

‘I have been so bored without you and just… adrift.’

‘Rhaegar! Stop it. You are not yourself.’

He collapsed into her then. It had been intended as a romantic gesture but he fell against her, and Lyanna had to brace herself to take his weight.

Then, she realised he was weeping. She tightened her grip on him and his arms clasped her so close, so desperately, that she could barely breathe.

‘Shh, my love… it will all be well…’

‘She’s gone! I wasn’t there… Gods Lyanna, I wasn’t there for her! I was never _there_.’

His guilt, regret and grief poured out. No matter how uncomfortable she was, Lyanna kept hold of him. She murmured what she prayed were comforting words and stroked his hair, rubbed his back and otherwise tried somehow to show him that she was there and loved him no matter how alone he felt.

Rhaegar grieved badly enough for his father’s death, but that had been an almost-longed for event. Rhaella had loved and been loved, and for all her weakness and cowardice in the face of her brother-husband’s brutal regime, she had been a good person.

When he could cry no more, Lyanna released him just enough to reach out to dry his eyes. His face was blotchy and his eyes red. She saw then how tired he was too: had he been working himself through all the hours of the day to hide from the news and to bring his grand plan to fruition?

Of course he had. She led her husband to the bed, which earned a weakly wry smile from him, but instead of disrobing she pulled the covers over him and kissed his burning forehead.

‘Sleep, my darling. I will be here when you wake.’

Rhaegar opened his mouth to object but was asleep before he could form a word.

 

*

 

He awoke a few hours later. ‘I was not there. Mother needed me and I was not there. _You_ needed me and-’

‘My beloved,’ she replied shortly. ‘You were needed _here_. Your mother would not have liked you to see her as she was. She could not bear for you to see her even weaker than you already had. I’m so sorry, love.’

Rhaegar reached out and dragged her down onto the bed with him. He slid his hand along the swell of her stomach, where another dragon rested.

‘Are _you_ well, my Queen?’ He gazed at her bump with fear and wonder, just as he had for Aegon.

‘Tired, that is all. I miss Rhaella, of course but… Daenerys is a lovely child. She is beautiful of course, but serene too.’

His face almost turned to stone and he did not speak.

‘She did _not_ die because of little Dany. She was going to die. Daenerys gave her a reason to live a little longer. After your father- I promise you, she stayed as long as she could.’

Rhaegar curled up around her and rested his ear against the bump. ‘I know. Truly, I do. This is the future. This is the Prince That Was Promised.’

Lyanna tensed at mention of the Promised Prince. It was _her_ child, _her_ sweet one, not some prophetic saviour! ‘Perhaps.’

Rhaegar kissed her belly first, then her lips. ‘All will be well… I just so wish she could have been a part of it, seen the world I am building for our children and their children. For all the children.’

Lyanna listened as he chattered about all the work and plans in progress. As long as he talked, he did not think of his mother with sorrow.

If only she could keep him talking until the worst of it was passed.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that happened.
> 
> Thanks particularly to Dr Holland, who is awesome!


	41. Pause

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for all the reading and commenting and kudosing. I can hardly believe that this now has over 1000 kudos!
> 
> Just a quick piece before everything escalates to like, woah...

Rhaegar XVIII

 

Rhaegar finally met his sister late that night. He had not set out to do so, but he yearned more to see his son Aegon than he wished to avoid his infant sister, and they were in the same nursery.

Daenerys looked much like Viserys had at the same age: pretty, blonde and purple eyed. She was serene, as Lyanna said, where Viserys had been loud and crotchety for the first period of life.

The nurse leapt up as quick as she could on seeing the King appear in the doorway. ‘Would you like to hold your sister, Your Grace?’

Princess Daenerys was as soft and warm as any new-born, with the comforting scent they all seemed to have. As Rhaegar held his sister, a surge of _something powerful_ and intense swept over him.

He pressed a feather light kiss on her warm forehead. ‘I pledge my brotherly love and fealty to you, little Daenerys.’

The nurse smiled indulgently, having seen many such moments in her long life. Rhaegar had not expected to say the words. Not with Rhaella’s death so recent.  A change had come: the shift from one generation to the next, and he now felt great hope.

Now all he needed was the Prince That Was Promised and a third head for the dragon. That seemed easy enough. Perhaps this sister _was_ the third head? Or even… Daenerys _was_ the prince - Valyrian did not distinguish gender in the wording of the prophecy. She was so unexpected, this storm-born orphan child, that she surely had some higher purpose? He would have to revisit his work, and the old writings!

He handed Daenerys off to the nurse, and rushed to his solar, caught and energised by the thought.

He had been studying a short while when his wife came for him.

‘Here you are! We’ve been waiting to eat for ages!’

He blinked several times. She opened the curtains: night had long fallen and he had not felt it.

‘Come on.’ She tugged him out of his seat, almost lifting him. ‘See your family.’

Dinner was in the smallest hall of Maegor’s Holdfast used for such a purpose: it was as informal as a royal dinner could be. Viserys looked extremely put out that he was kept waiting for food; Aegon dozed against Selyse Florent’s shoulder; Jon and Richard were trying to conceal their boredom and hunger, while Ser Arthur and Ser Jaime stood guard.

‘I do apologise. Time got away from me. Please, do eat.’

Servants swarmed to serve the food they had been striving to keep warm.

Lyanna smiled at him as they sat to eat, but he could see the concern and irritation warring for domination in her mind. He then realised that he had spent less than ten minutes with her - awake at least - since she’d returned. And he had not even looked at Aegon, despite the intention for his nursery visit. He was a terrible husband and a worse father. Still, he could not make amends so publicly, so he turned his attention instead to his invited guests: Brandon Stark and his chief engineer.

Brandon’s wife, the ever-lovely Ashara Dayne, was due to produce the next Stark heir soon and had remained at home in their villa, next door to Elia Martell.

‘Lord Stark,’ Rhaegar began. ‘I understand you are travelling to Starfall soon?’

‘Soon, Your Grace. I just waited to see my little sister before going. Who knows when we might see each other again? Ashara wants to have the child where she feels comfortable, and… we will be travelling with Elia as far as-’ he stopped abruptly and cast a wary glance at his sister.

‘I would very much like to visit with both Ladies before you depart,’ Lyanna replied, sincerity shining in her smile.

Rhaegar let out a breath he hadn’t noticed he was holding. Would the mention of his first wife ever pass without a moment of tension? The current one glanced over at him and nodded, but he knew she was not at ease.

He had not seen his wife for three moons, and he missed her… but apparently not enough to spend any time with her. He needed to do so, and immediately.

He rose from his chair and because he was King, so did everyone else.

‘No, please do not. Stay as long as you wish. I must speak privately with the Queen.’

Lyanna rose with dignity not quite usual for her, and left the room without a word. Brandon’s smirk proved at least one guest suspected what Rhaegar was about, but the King did not much care about that. He rushed to catch up with Lyanna as she marched as quickly as she could manage. Her stony expression and swift pace did not bode well for him.

Once in their rooms, she perched on the edge of the bed and simply stared up at him.

‘I am sorry. Sorry and also quite stupid.’

‘What for?’

‘Ignoring you. I wasn’t… I wasn’t _ignoring you_ so much as I was caught up with something-’

‘Realm or prophecy?’

‘What?’

‘Which was it that kept you from me?’

‘Prophecy.’ There was no point in lying to her.

She sighed and began to undo the various fastenings of her dress. ‘You can be dense, Rhaegar Targaryen.’

‘I know.’

‘I’ve missed you so very much, dear husband.’

He knelt down in front of her, supposedly to help her remove her shoes and stockings, but in fact to press hot kisses against her soft skin as he revealed it. ‘I know, my love. I have missed you more.’

Lyanna let out a huffed sigh as he moved to undo her skirt and his knuckles grazed her. ‘I cannot imagine that is true.’

‘You were surrounded by family,’ he said. ‘I have been in this pit of vultures, vipers and schemers… Cer-’

Lyanna reached out and pressed a finger against his mouth. ‘That name has no place in this room.’

‘Yet we must speak of many things-’

‘Indeed, but not presently. Not-’

And so it came to pass that the dragon did roar again at last, and the wolf did indeed howl.

  

*

 

Lyanna XIX

 

Filmy light seeped into the room as dawn diffused soft yellow light across the sky, casting strange and shifting shadows across Rhaegar’s back as he slept. She already ached again. Something about this pregnancy - and their separating - left her feeling a constant, nagging yearning that only Rhaegar could fulfil. She had simply ignored it on Dragonstone, with other greater concerns commanding her full attention and now she was home it roared to life once more.

Lyanna reached out to take a lock of his hair between her fingers. She _was_ angry about his apparent desertion the day before, but what good would anger do? He was not a rational man when it came to the prophecy.

She hoped this child fit the damned thing, if only to give Rhaegar some peace. Did she herself believe it? That there might be a greater threat to humanity than known before?

Mostly, she did. Lyanna was of the North and she knew what seemingly unnatural dangers lurked beyond The Wall. Anything was possible, and she remembered Old Nan’s stories all too well… The Wall had been built for a _reason_.

Yet, and yet! Did _her_ children have to be the ones to fight the dangers? Why them? Let someone else’s children risk it all!

That notion was immediately quashed. She would not send another mother’s children to die if she could help it. No, at least her children had the possible protection of the prophecy behind them. Even without the power of the prophecy, her children had the might of a Targaryen army - other mothers’ children.

Rhaegar stirred and turned onto his back. One purple eye opened to scout the day for the rest of him. ‘You’re awake.’

‘Your princeling was active this morning.’

He rested his head against the bump. ‘Morning, my love. Good morning, little babe.’

She could hardly resist how sweetly he spoke to the unborn, how his fingers trailed softly against her skin.

_Oh_ _…_

He sensed her change in mood and raised a single blond eyebrow. ‘Again? Had I known how much you missed me…’

She laughed. ‘It is all your fault.’

‘Nay, my lady. You started this.’

‘Oh?’

‘I recall a young woman standing before me and letting her dress fall to the floor. Ready, you said.’

‘I was. I _am._ ’

A sharp knock on the door interrupted.

‘Bloody _people_.’

‘It must be important. Go on. I should rest. See Aegon, as well.’

She knew he’d been to the nursery but the nurse was _her_ woman and so Lyanna knew that he’d become caught up with Daenerys. It was understandable, but Lyanna would not let him neglect his son, consciously or otherwise.

‘Of course.’ Two red spots rose on his milky cheeks, and she knew he felt badly. She watched him dress, her interest unconcealed and his reluctantly tamped down. ‘I will see you later.’

‘As soon as I possibly can, my Queen.’ He winked at her as he slipped out the door to the waiting world.

Lyanna curled up on her side, trying to find a position that suited both her and the dragon’s child in her womb. She rubbed her belly and from inside, a foot kicked against her hand. The world outside, with its Blighted Knight, and the schemers and the women that would see themselves in her place, they could all wait just a little longer.


	42. Heart Tree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short bit for you to enjoy - we'll be getting into the meat of things very, very soon...

Arya IV

 

The King and his party returned from The Wall after three full moons away from Winterfell, and it was to the profoundest relief of all at the great castle.

Arya and Sansa had been required to re-read the parchments left to them by Aunt Lyanna, and they were incomplete without the colour she always brought to her storytelling. They took to telling their own versions with their own variations and ideas of what made a proper royal romance, which did not turn to disagreement and bickering every time, but it felt like it sometimes and Lady Catelyn alternated between ruing the day her good sister returned North, and wishing she would hurry back and finish what she started.

Duncan had become quiet and prone to occasional fits of temper after so long without his parents, even though Lady Catelyn and Maester Luwin did their best to keep him busy. Bran, Rickon and Arya did their best to distract him with mischief of varying flavours; Sansa took it upon herself to fuss over him like a little mother might.

When King Rhaegar and Queen Lyanna rode back into the courtyard at Winterfell, Duncan left Sansa’s side and almost skidded under the hooves of his father’s horse in his eagerness to reach the man himself.

Fortunately, Rhaegar was an observant and quick-witted fellow and pulled his son up into his saddle before harm could be done. ‘Did you miss me, darling boy?’

‘Yes! Didn’t you miss me?’

‘Every day, Dunk. You’ll have to come on my next expedition, because I couldn’t bear it.’

‘What about me?’ Lyanna asked, face flushed from a hard ride. ‘Did my youngest boy not miss the mother who yearned for him?’

‘I did, I did!’

Aegon and Jon rode close behind. Both of them were somehow much more grown-up than when they had left. Jon had a dark scruff of beard across his face; Aegon’s hair had grown long and wild; they were both weather-beaten and grimy from the journey.

‘Your Grace, we have hot water ready for all to have baths,’ Lady Catelyn announced - rather grandly, Arya thought.

‘We need to speak to Ned as soon as can be,’ Lyanna replied.

‘Bathe first, and then-’

‘Now, Lady Catelyn.’ Rhaegar was grave, face hard like the stone dragons carved into the Red Keep, and not just because the Lady of Winterfell had dared interrupt and contradict the Queen of all Seven Kingdoms.

Catelyn’s curtsy was deep. ‘He’s on his way home from White Harbour, otherwise he’d be here to greet you. We expect him back this afternoon.’

Rhaegar sighed. Her uncle looked, Arya thought, older and more tired than she’d ever seen him: a dragon without his fire.

Even after the riders dismounted and greetings were made, she couldn’t help feel that they were all distracted and even sad.

They went to clean up and await the Warden of the North.

 

*

 

Arya and Sansa wanted to see Aunt Lyanna to discuss the story, but they were stopped at the door by the sound of voices inside her chamber: Uncle Rhaegar and her.

‘It is as prophesied.’ His voice was clear but unhappy.

‘All will be well.’ That was Aunt Lyanna, but she did not sound truthful.

‘How can it be? The Winter you always said is coming? It’s _here_.’

‘And it will have to fight you, my love, and our brave princes. The Prince That Was Promised, as you keep saying.’

‘Yet even after all these years of study, I cannot tell you how this will unfold-’

The door latch was not fully engaged and as Arya leaned against the wood, it cracked opened slightly. The Stark sisters froze, but the residents of the room did not notice anything amiss, although they were now a little visible through the gap.

They had climbed into the metal bath together - neither girl had ever considered such a thing as possible, necessary or desirable before - and clung to each other, wet hair clinging to their skin. It was not romantic, but absolute, total intimacy.

Arya pulled the door closed silently, face burning. Although Sansa hesitated, they tiptoed silently away, their Stark honour refusing to spy or eavesdrop a moment longer.

Neither spoke until they were safely in Sansa’s room.

‘Winter is coming,’ Arya said.

‘Did you _see_ them?’ Sansa asked. ‘I would like to be loved so deeply!’

She sighed dreamily, and Arya rather wanted to smack her sister in the face. She had her priorities quite, quite wrong!

‘You said you didn’t think they even loved each other!’

‘That was before we knew! And- well, you saw them!’

Without realising it, both girls’ belief in love and romance was profoundly shaped in that moment, for the better. Neither would settle for anything less than Aunt Lyanna had - even if the person in question was not even close to being a king.

‘Do you think Aunt Lyanna will let me go with them?’ Sansa asked suddenly. ‘Back to King’s Landing?’

‘Mayhaps. It was my turn before,’ Arya answered, unwilling to puncture her sister’s rosy daze in the moment, no matter how irritating it was.

‘I would like so much to be in love.’

Arya snorted. ‘I wouldn’t. Unless my husband didn’t mind me riding and fighting and- nobody will want me.’

‘Well,’ Sansa patted her hand. ‘You’re an awful lot like Aunt Lyanna, and someone loves her. Loves her more than- more than anything.’

 

*

 

Neither knew exactly what the King and Queen had discussed with their father upon his return from White Harbour. It was decided, however, that they would both go south with their aunt and uncle. Jon, by contrast, would remain at Winterfell with Ned and Robb. Mama, Bran and Rickon were coming South too, although she hadn’t decided whether to go home to Riverrun or to King’s Landing.

Aunt Lyanna did not come to tell them stories on the first night back, nor even on the second or third. She and Father and Uncle Rhaegar stayed cloistered away in the Lord’s Solar, and when not there, the King and Queen kept to their room.

On the fourth day, Arya went looking for Aunt Lyanna and found her bent so low at the foot of the Heart Tree that she was practically lying face down in the dirt.

‘Extract my punishment if you must,’ Arya heard her cry. ‘Take it from me, but I beg you, do not take from my children. Do not harm the husband I love, who has done no wrong. Punish the wrongdoer, as is natural justice. Punish _me_.’

‘What did you do?’ Arya blurted before she could think.

Lyanna leapt up. ‘What are you doing here, Arya?’

‘I came looking for you.’

Aunt Lyanna smoothed her dress and tried to pretend everything was well. ‘You should go back inside.’

‘Did you do something wrong?’ Arya asked. ‘Maester Luwin says when I do something wrong, I should be honest and apologise and mean it, and everything will work out as it should.’

Lyanna reached out a hand to her. ‘He’s quite right, of course.’

‘What did you do? Something very bad.’

‘Yes, but for a good reason.’

‘Oh.’

‘I owe you the rest of the story, do I not?’

‘Yes, please!’ Arya quite forgot any wrongdoing then. ‘Sansa and I read everything you wrote and we want to know what happens next. Please, Aunt Lyanna, will you finish the story tonight? Will you? Please?’

‘I don’t know if I can finish it, dear girl… but we will resume the story at bedtime.’

‘Thank you, thank you! I’ll go and tell Sansa!’ Arya ran off and thought no more of the moment in the Godswood until many years had passed.

 

*


	43. Fight the Blight

Rhaegar XIX

 

Rhaegar had no time to grieve his mother, nor even particularly enjoy his family’s return to him. Since the first attack by the Blighted Knight, the King had sent six separate groups of his best man to bring this malevolence to its knees. Six were destroyed.

The Blighted Knight had stopped even leaving survivors to tell the tales: the tales now told themselves.

There was one unsavoury fact Rhaegar had yet to fully face: There was a spy in his midst. Each unit had been sent out in secrecy but each was met by the Blighted Knight and slaughtered.

Rhaegar was running out of ideas. The Blighted Knight seemed to be indestructible.

The people were increasingly fearful; the nobles were expecting him to slay the blighted one with no further inconvenience to themselves. Every question asked of him when he stepped out of his chambers was related in some way to the Blighted Knight. He had now sought some refuge in his solar, and as it grew late, Ser Arthur had come to join him bearing a particular fine Dornish wine sent by his mother from Starfall.

‘How did you take down the Kingswood Brotherhood?’ he asked Arthur.

‘Luck, mostly.’

‘Come on, modesty does not suit the Sword of the Morning.’

‘No? Well, as I have little else-’ Arthur silenced himself and stared into his goblet.’

‘Arthur-’

‘Do not, old friend. I meant nothing by it.’

‘If you ever wish to be released-’

‘No! How could I look my brothers in the eye? Or others? Or myself, ever again? I made a vow and I will keep to it. I am the Sword of the Morning, after all.’

‘Really, you make too much-’

‘If you release me, Tywin Lannister will take his son back before you could so much as sneeze. What would it say to Ser Gerold, Ser Barristan, who have given their lives to serving kings? And what would it say about my inaction during the last reign? Nay Rhaegar, I’ll not do it.’

‘As you wish.’

‘I do not _wish_ … It is as it should be.’

They were quiet then, contemplative and comfortable as only two old friends could be. Their serenity was broken by the arrival of Queen Lyanna, fresh from a visit with Brandon and Lyanna. She was red-faced and gasping for breath. Rhaegar leapt from his chair to lead her into it.

‘Gods, Lyanna, whatever is wrong?’

‘I think… I think I have an idea how to flush out your spy!’

Arthur gave her a small glass of wine to sip from, and she relayed her idea. Rhaegar became increasingly pale upon hearing the punchline, and then he kicked over a table, sending books flying.

‘Absolutely not! I would rather die myself than put you in such danger!’

‘Calm down. I am already in danger, if there are spies here working in concert with the Blighted Knight, and there surely are. All will be well. Even _we_ will not know the truth until the last possible minute. Aegon will remain here with you, safe in the Red Keep. Viserys and Daenerys remain here with you. Even if the worst were to happen, it would not be the absolute worst.’

‘I completely disagree!’

Lyanna beckoned Rhaegar to her. ‘Elia wants to go home, my love. Brandon and Ashara want to leave too. We can cause such confusion! Nobody will know. It is surely the _least bad_ plan of a dozen terrible plans.’

Rhaegar sighed heavily, the weight of the realm heavy upon him. He sank to the floor and rested his head upon her bump. The baby nudged him as Lyanna tangled a hand in his hair. Arthur pretended not to notice.

Rhaegar spoke then: ‘You will all be accompanied by the very best-’

‘Your Grace, let me lead Princess Elia’s guard.’

Rhaegar bit back a laugh at his friend’s transparent heart. ‘If you wish. But Lyanna-’

‘Send Ser Gerold with me, send whoever you like. But we must do _something._ ’

‘I dislike this plan.’

‘Have you got a better one?’

‘No. How many people have you discussed this with?’

‘None. It came to me while they were talking. We three alone. And anyone listening.’

‘We three?’ Rhaegar stood again. ‘I cannot guarantee your safety. Or that of this child. I wish- The Blighted Knight is beyond any foe I’ve yet seen.’

‘I know. And that is why we must act now.’ Lyanna shook her head. ‘It is my _duty_ to fight for the good of the realm, to put the lives of the people ahead of my own. I will lay my life down a hundred times to stop this river of blood.’

‘And I will take a hundred lives to save yours.’

‘It will not be that way. It cannot.’

With a total lack of better ideas, they spent the rest of the night planning, scheming and re-planning.

 

*

 

The next morning it was announced that Queen Lyanna’s health had faltered and she was to go to the countryside for her health.

‘She will be travelling south with Princess Elia,’ he told Tywin Lannister. ‘The Southern weather will do her good.’

‘Indeed, Your Grace.’ Tywin agreed politely, noting privately that the King and Queen were spending very little time together. They could not be happy. Cersei would get her wish after all, it seemed.

 

*

 

‘The Queen will be going North,’ he told Varys. ‘Benjen Stark is returning home and we do not believe she is safe here at the present time.’

‘That makes perfect sense, Your Grace. Your wolf will thrive amongst the cold air and old gods of the North.’

‘Indeed. She wishes to see her father, and her new nephew.’

‘I wish her safe travels, Your Grace.’

 

*

 

Rhaegar met with Mace Tyrell in the Small Council chamber.

‘My wife is going to Riverrun. We would make amends to Lord Hoster after the broken engagement.’

Mace bowed, quite unnecessarily. ‘I understand Lady Catelyn is happy with Ned Stark in the North.’

Rhaegar chuckled. ‘She might be, Lord Hoster is not. He was promised the heir of a Great House for her. Still, I hear that the younger daughter is causing him no end of trouble, so we hope that Lyanna might be able to intercede. Perhaps bring the girl here as one of her attendant ladies.’

‘A fine idea, Your Grace.’

 

*

 

His Baratheon cousin came to him, asking after the Queen’s health.

‘She does not do well here in the city. She is going to see the Tyrells in the heart of the Reach. We rather think that the fine landscape of Highgarden will do her a world of good. Say nothing to anyone, cousin. The roads are powerfully dangerous at present and the Queen…’

‘Of course,’ Robert boomed. ‘I wouldn’t see harm done to your lady as long as I draw breath. Indeed, I offer you the alternative of Storm’s End. Not so pretty, but so much safer. Nobody can take Storm’s End.’

‘That’s kind of you, Robert. I will consider it.’

 

*

 

At the very crack of dawn three days later, the King and Queen prepared for her imminent departure in silence. He dismissed the serving girl in favour of helping her dress personally.

Just as they were about to leave the cocoon of their room, he clutched her to him. ‘Don’t go. We will find another way-’

‘All will be well.’

Rhaegar buried his face in the crook of her neck. ‘I detest this plan.’

She shivered as his breath tickled her skin.

‘We agreed it is the best plan of any number of bad plans. Sending force against the Blighted Knight doesn’t work. Too many people are dying. We must do something. And this way, Ashara and Elia are that bit safer on their journey… if everyone is busy and the Blighted Knight is distracted, they will be left alone. I will have Ser Gerold, and Brandon for part of the journey. We will travel quite incognito once away from the city. Nobody will know…’

‘It is not enough.’

‘You have soldiers stationed on every road. Wherever we end up, we will be all right. There are bigger concerns than me.’

‘No concern is greater to me.’

‘Thank you, but you are King and haven’t that luxury.’

‘I have never so loathed being a king.’

 

*

 

The party left with conspicuous fanfare. Rhaegar briefly embraced his first wife: if she remained in Dorne, it might be many years before he saw her again and he would surely miss her kind, thoughtful presence.

‘I wish you all the happiness in the world,’ he told her.

‘And to you, dear Rhaegar.’

‘Don’t feel you need to send Arthur back directly. I am quite safe with Ser Jaime, Ser Barristan and the walls of the Red Keep.’

Elia blushed a little. ‘As you command, Your Grace.’

He handed her into the wheelhouse, then turned his attention to Arthur. ‘Keep them safe. Then take some time to reacquaint yourself with home. I will need you soon, but not for a while.’

‘You are not subtle, Rhaegar.’

‘No, perhaps not.’

Similar farewells took place amongst the rest of the group before they set off in a clatter of hooves and wheels. The King lingered not a moment in the courtyard, but from his solar he watched the party leave King’s Landing through the gargantuan River Gate. He watched until they were nothing but a brown blur in the distance.

He was the King of the Seven Kingdoms. The blood of Aegon the Conqueror ran in his veins. He was one of the great minds, one of the great warriors, of his generation. He was absolutely powerless.

 

*

 

Lyanna XX

 

The parties split into three at the fork between the Kingsroad and the Roseroad: Benjen Stark was leading the group returning North, using Jessa as Lyanna’s decoy; Elia and Ashara were travelling directly south with Prince Lewyn Martell and Ser Arthur Dayne leading their guard.

Lyanna’s plan had changed yet again, decreed by the King at the very last minute. Only two people knew this changed plan when the Queen departed the city.

 There were a few brief tears between the women, more from being parted at all than fear, but it could not be denied that all present were quietly afraid of what might lie ahead.

The Blighted Knight had begun his campaign of terror in the Riverlands but had not restricted himself to any particular location.

‘I will send a raven to the King when we reach the Crossroads Inn,’ Benjen told his sister as they bade each other a fond farewell. We’re going to take the route west, avoiding Harrenhal.’

‘Be safe, brother. Winter is coming.’

‘Winter is coming,’ he repeated. ‘I will see you again, very soon.’

‘Remember,’ Brandon told his brother. ‘As far as anyone is concerned, you have the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms under your protection. Act like it.’

‘Aye brother. Jessa, are you ready to be treated like a queen?’

‘Yes, my lord. Although I’m told _this_ queen has a habit of riding hard and seldom resting.’

Lyanna snorted a laugh. ‘That much is true. Be safe, Jessa.’

‘I will, Your Grace.’

They rode off with a unit of soldiers, leaving two thirds of the group. Brandon was loath to leave his wife.

‘You can go with them,’ Lyanna said. ‘Between my lord Jon Connington and Ser Gerold, I will be well protected.’

‘And go back on my word to your husband? Not a chance, sister. I am to see you safely through the Kingswood.’

‘We are not going to Storm’s End, brother.’

‘You are not?’

‘Rhaegar had a better idea. We are going to Summerhall. Go with your wife. I am not insensible to the danger they are in with the Blighted Knight out there somewhere. We hope that he - or his master, whoever that might be - is concerned more with me than any other, but… we cannot be sure. Go with them.’

‘Lyanna-’

‘I am your queen and I order you to go with your wife. The wheelhouse is far more conspicuous than I will be on horseback.’

Jon Connington had been quietly listening, but this was too much for him. ‘Your Grace, you cannot possibly ride in your condition!’

‘Watch me, Jon. My mother rode until the day before Benjen was born.’

‘And she died,’ Brandon muttered.

Lyanna’s eyes narrowed. ‘For reasons unrelated to her horse.’

‘You cannot defend yourself against a demon who has killed the best of the King’s men!’ Brandon cut in, but then he relented. ‘We will not part in anger. You will do as you please, but I _will_ take you through the Kingswood.’

‘We will reach safety so much more quickly,’ she pointed out.

Lyanna elicited a hug from Ser Arthur and a salute from the others in Princess Elia’s guard. She kissed Ashara as a sister she had come to love dearly, and wished her a safe labour of her own.

Elia, she kissed with the fondness of a dear cousin or friend.

‘May you find your much deserved happiness in Dorne, dear Elia.’

‘I wish you a good and safe delivery,’ Elia replied and she touched Lyanna’s bump lightly. ‘I believe the gods must have arranged this all for us. I am glad Rhaegar found a true sort of love.’

‘All will be well.’

Brandon bid his wife an impassioned farewell that made everyone else look away blushing. The Queen’s small party divested themselves of any finery and rode away from the much slower wheelhouse as it trundled away on the Roseroad.

Lyanna, Brandon, Jon and Ser Gerold rode at a good pace, but Lyanna grew frustrated at how quickly she became tired. She refused to stop, but her men were keeping a close eye.

‘This is a fine place to stop,’ Jon declared as they reached a small copse deep in the Kingswood. ‘Don’t you agree, Ser Gerold?’

‘I do, my lord.’

‘As do I,’ Brandon finished and he leapt gracefully from his horse and had Vhagar’s reins in hand before Lyanna could object.

She was settled beside a hastily constructed fire before she knew it.

‘I’m not an invalid,’ she grumbled. ‘I rode to Summerhall with Aegon in my belly.’

‘You were not nearly so far along,’ Brandon countered. ‘Let us take care of you and don’t grumble.’

‘Did you definitely lose any shadows?’ Jon asked.

‘Yes,’ Ser Gerold replied. ‘We lost the last when we crossed the stream.’

Lyanna yawned. ‘Good. We shouldn’t keep the fire going too long.’

‘Yes, Your Grace,’ Ser Gerold replied politely, yet in such a way that he was clear that he _did_ know what he was doing.

‘You look odd in brown, Ser Gerold. Indeed, in anything but white.’

‘It feels just as odd, Your Grace.’

‘Gods, we’ll have to stop all that. We must have names and stories and… I shall be Ryelle, daughter of Daven. That’s you, Ser. You’re a… carpenter seeking work. Jon, you shall be… Jon should be fine. I don’t suppose you can hide that red hair?’

‘I have a hat, Your- Ryelle.’

‘Good. Brandon, you look far too Northern to be otherwise. Choose a good Northern name.’

‘Brandon Stark has always suited me well.’

‘Bran-’

‘I’m no mummer-’

‘It’s just to keep us undetected should be encounter anyone.’

‘Young Rickard then. And you can only ever be mistaken for my sister, idiot. Choose a Northern name, she-wolf.’

‘Fine.’ Lyanna poked at the fire with a stick. ‘You are Young Rickard and he is Old Rickard and I am… Arya, after the Flint woman.’

‘I should be a stableman,’ Ser Gerold said. ‘I’ve no knowledge of carpentry if questioned.’

‘Very well. We met Jon on the Kingsroad.’

Her brother frowned. ‘And how will you explain how you became great with child?’

‘I am the widow of a sailor from White Harbour, of course.’

‘Oh, of course. How silly of me not to guess. Mummers’ Farce it is then.’

They travelled for two long and exhausting days before reaching a small village near the source of the Wendwater. The river was not a great deal more than a stream here, and the spring was a great source of crisp, beautifully fresh water.

The group of travellers kept away from the village itself until they could no longer avoid it. Ser Gerold and Jon filled their collections of water-skins and the group tried to arm itself as best it could without appearing to have done so.

The village was quiet - much too quiet, in fact.

‘What day is it?’ Jon asked, noting the empty streets.

‘I mislike this,’ Ser Gerold said, casting a glance around. ‘Jon, get _Arya_ to safety.’

‘Shall-’

‘Go.’

Jon nodded grimly and directed his and Lyanna’s horse away, out of the village. She made no sound and did not dare glance back.

They did not get far. The clamour of fighting rose up behind them and they each spurred their horses into a gallop.

Despite their best efforts, Jon and Lyanna were soon surrounded by infantry and cavalry. Both sets of soldiers were clad in Baratheon gold and black, rampant stags upon their chests.

So, Robert was the turncoat. Lyanna sighed.

Their Captain greeted them with a mocking salute. ‘Your Grace, it is not safe here.’

‘Not now, it isn’t.’

‘Lord Robert has instructed us to take you to Storm’s End to assure your safety.’

‘Did he?’ Lyanna sneered, not even troubling herself with the pretence. Her concerns were with her brother and Ser Gerold in the village. ‘And if I disagree with his opinion?’

‘Well, we would not be responsible-’

‘You would harm your Queen?’

‘Of _course_ not, Your Grace! Yet these woods and villages are unsafe, especially for a woman in your condition.’

‘We will come with you peaceably,’ Jon interrupted before Lyanna could speak again. ‘If you swear no harm will come to Queen Lyanna.’

‘Or to Jon,’ she added. ‘And my other guards.’

The Captain scowled but nodded. ‘I do swear it… as much as it is in my power.’

‘If at any time I feel Her Grace is in danger-’

‘Indeed, yes. Come along.’

They returned to the village, which was now full of activity. A dozen Baratheon men lay dead, or nearly-dead, thanks to Ser Gerold and Brandon’s indefatigable spirits.

Ser Gerold was on his knees in the square, surrounded by Baratheon men and kept in place with a sword held to his neck by Lord Robert Baratheon himself.

‘I shan’t harm you!’ Lord Robert bellowed so loud that a couple of nearby horses skittered and had to be brought under control by their Baratheon riders. ‘That’s not why we’re here.’

‘And yet, it isn’t truly to keep me safe, is it?’ Lyanna asked as she rode up, head high. ‘A sword, my lord? I thought a hammer was more your choice.’

Robert laughed heartily. ‘For war, my lady. This is not war, I am protecting you, Your Grace. And it’s taken us days to find you - naughty girl, changing your plans as you did.’

‘Where is Brandon?’ she asked, dread rippling through her blood. Who could possibly bring down Brandon Stark?

Robert moved aside to reveal Brandon gravely injured, resting against the water fountain in the centre of the square.

‘Jon, help me down!’ Lyanna yelped.

Robert’s soldiers went to stop them, but Robert bade them pause, although he handed Lyanna down himself. She yanked her hand away from him as soon as she could, and ignored the way his gloved hand brushed against the swell of her middle.

‘Brandon-’ She rushed over and almost threw herself down to cradle his bloodied head in her lap. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t- I really thought this would work- I’m so _sorry_.’ Bitter self-hatred filled her mind.

The plan was hers, the fault was hers. She had killed her beloved brother as surely as if she had swung the sword herself.

‘He said you would not long be queen,’ Brandon mumbled. ‘I am sorry I could not protect you.’

‘You _did_ , Brandon. You always did.’

‘I wish I could see my Ashara again, just once… I would… make sure my child becomes a great Northern lord… all the gods know I would not have been such. Just once…’

‘Oh,’ said Lord Robert, as if he was discussing weather. ‘I expect you’ll be seeing her very soon.’

Lyanna’s eyes narrowed at him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Lord Tywin has sent the Blighted Knight after them. Or rather, you. We wondered if this misdirection was your plan. I didn’t think you’d avoid Storm’s End, but no matter.’

All was now clear to Lyanna as she stared into her brother’s waxy face and failing eyes.

‘What was your price?’ she asked Robert, without looking at him, quite without emotion.

‘If Rhaegar agrees to marry Cersei, I get you. If he refuses, I will become the king and marry her and you? Well… that all depends. Not a bad deal.’

‘You? King? Rhaegar has heirs-’ She wanted to faint, with her dying brother’s blood on her hands and gut-wrenching fear for her family threatening to overwhelm her completely. This was _all her fault_.

Was this the gods’ punishment for her killing the king?

‘Lyanna,’ Brandon moaned.’

‘I’m sorry, Brandon. I’m so, so sorry.’

‘Tell Ash- tell her I really was faithful to her. Tell her that I was brave at the end.’

‘I shall. You are brave indeed. You-’

Brandon Stark, the Wild Wolf and heir to Lord Rickard Stark, took his last breath and died on an anonymous street in a forgettable village, head in his sister’s lap and far from the woman he loved.

Robert waited a moment before barking an order: ‘Bury the dead! I will take Her Grace to safety.’

He pulled her to her feet as two of his men pulled Brandon’s body away. Lyanna reached for Vhagar’s reins but Robert had other ideas.

‘Nay, my lady. Tis not safe for you.’

‘Do fuck off.’

‘We have a wheelhouse and you will use it.’

She obeyed, having no other choice. Tired and heartbroken, she stumbled a little. Some of Robert’s men yanked her to her feet and pushed her forward.

‘No, you will not manhandle the Queen!’ Ser Gerold rose up and grabbed Robert’s sword in both hands. Slicing his palms, he was yet still able to disarm the lord and knock him to the ground. The element of surprise was a powerful one.

Ser Gerold fought valiantly and slew the manhandling soldiers, but he was vastly, pathetically outnumbered and soon joined Brandon Stark in the grasp of the Stranger.

Lyanna was almost grateful for the wheelhouse: she was able to hide her tears and face and grief from Robert Baratheon.

 

*

 

She awoke in a relatively pleasant, if bare room in what appeared to be a small keep - certainly note huge, fortress-like Storm’s End. She could smell salt in the air and the breeze was damp: Shipbreaker Bay?

Jon dozed in a chair near her bed, hands and feet shackled but otherwise not secured.

‘My lady?’

‘Jon!’ She struggled to sit up, but at least she had not been chained up. ‘Did they harm you?’

‘Nay, I did as I was told,’ he said, words oozing self-recrimination.

‘You survived, and for that I am so glad. I need you more than ever. My brother-’ Lyanna wept without warning: painful, hacking sobs that rattled her already squeezed ribs.

‘We will get out of here. There is only a light guard.’

Lyanna’s instinct was to leap to her feet and storm through what felt to be a small, rather rickety old keep. When she tried, her sore limbs and increased belly gave her pause. Her ankles had swollen and her breath was shallow.

‘Later, perhaps.’

‘Yes,’ Jon agreed. ‘Cover of darkness will assist us. I did my best to look out for landmarks as we travelled here. I believe we are to the west of Storm’s End. Not so very far from my own Roost, Your Grace. We might be able to reach it-’

She drifted asleep with his soothing words in her mind.

 

*

 

Later was no wiser, in reality. There was not much in the room, but Lyanna found a broken butter knife which she was able to use to prise open the hinges of Jon’s restraints. They got as far as the small, straw-littered courtyard.

Unfortunately, Robert’s guards were much like himself and had started a game of what looked like a bastardisation of Cyvasse near the gate.

The cry went up: ‘MY LORD!’

Robert arrived quickly, alert and clear-minded.

‘If I cannot trust you to mind yourself, I must do it for you, my lady.’

Two of his guards held her by the arms and led her behind him, down a set of wet stone steps into a dungeon.

The dungeon was cramped, musty and damp, with nothing more comfortable than a stone bench to rest on. Every bone in her body protested, every muscle strained.

‘I will return to you in the morning, my lady,’ Baratheon told her. ‘By then I hope these accommodations will have helped you reconsider your position, my lady.’

Jon scoffed. ‘Your Grace. Queen Lyanna is _Your Grace_.’

Robert shrugged and tossed her a possessive, sly smile. ‘For now. Times change.’

‘Tywin Lannister will not give you what you want,’ she said. ‘He is only working for his own ends.’

‘Of course he is, but so am I. For now, our allegiance is no hardship. Sleep well. My lady.’

The dungeon door closed with: the badly oiled metal hinge screeched and the lock turned with a heavy, ominous thunk.

Lyanna did her best not to cry, but found it impossible.

Jon was there with a consoling hand on her shoulder as she placed her own hands on the bump she ought never to have put in danger.

‘Worry not, my queen,’ he softly murmured as one might to a child. ‘You have a King who will tear apart the kingdom to bring you home safely.’

‘Yes,’ she replied, quite disconsolate, ‘That is rather what I think his enemies are hoping for.’ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very sorry for the delay yet again!


	44. A Change is Inevitable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting this in minutes before the New Year... enjoy!

Oswell I

 

Oswell Whent was with the King when ravens arrived bearing the worst possible tidings.

King Rhaegar read the two messages and in an instant, he broke. The papers fell from his hand as he fell back into his chair, and Oswell gathered them up, keen to understand exactly what had caused his kingly friend such heartache.

 _ELIA AND PARTY KILLED. BLIGHTED KNIGHT CAPTURED. RETURNING. AD._ Oswell wanted to be sick. It was not in Arthur’s own hand but he recognised the blunt tones Ser Arthur used during conflicts. Who had survived? Whatever had happened? Had the Queen not been with Princess Elia? Where was she? The second message gave some understanding:

I HAVE THE SHE-WOLF. It was unsigned and there were no clues on the scrap of parchment. The message was clear enough.

‘Your Grace, what would you have me do?’ he asked.

Rhaegar looked up. ‘Twas all for nought, Oz. For _nothing_. I have killed them.’

‘I do not understand, Your Grace. How is this your doing?’

The King explained the entire plan, for secrecy was no longer necessary, and Oswell listened carefully with mounting horror. He understood perfectly why he had not been included in the King’s scheme to outwit the Blighted Knight, although his pride stung a little from the omission.

Now there was nothing to do but find the Queen.

 

*

 

The King entered the Great Hall without warning or fanfare but at the first glimpse of him, all present fell immediately silent until the only sound echoing through the Hall was of his heavy boots as he strode through. Oswell followed close behind, hand constantly on the hilt of his blade, ready to strike at any time. Ser Jaime seemed to be of the same mind, although he had not yet been apprised of the plan. So many of the Kingsguard were not present that Oswell felt exposed and weak. He liked neither feeling and focused instead on looking for threats to the King’s Person. Mostly, the gathered courtiers were _curious_.

The King wore his blackest armour, only his head free from it. His shining blond hair flowed freely down his back, adorned with the gold and ruby crown so recently formed from the melted down crown of Aerys II.

His beauty was twisted into fury as he stood in front of the Iron Throne, hand on the hilt of his sword. He stood silently for so long that everyone began to shift uncomfortably where they stood or sat.

‘The royal caravan to Dorne was attacked yesterday morning,’ he announced at last. He was calm, collected and did not raise his voice, though all could clearly hear. ‘I am heartsick, for people dear to me were killed.’

Gasps of shock and horror. Oswell watched Rhaegar to judge his reactions: nothing, except a flicked, momentary gaze at Tywin Lannister, who did not react at all. His red and gold jerkin reflected light up at his face.

‘As you know, the Queen left King’s Landing for her health and-’ he paused until there was silence again. ‘And I am only glad on this bleak day that she is safe on Dragonstone as we speak.’

Oswell now concentrated on the Lannisters as everyone else reacted: if the Queen was not in the caravan travelling to Dorne, who was dead? Mutterings arose, along with relief that the Queen was safe. Nobody seemed to suspect that Dragonstone was itself a lie, concocted by the King to ferret out the spies amongst the court.

Tywin Lannister bore a brutal, humourless smirk of a man who knew more than everyone else in the room. Next to him, Cersei responded with appropriate horror but her eyes glittered.

Oswell was not at all surprised but did not allow himself any hope. How were they to prove anything against a slippery eel like Lannister?

The King’s voice rose up again, rasping with barely-contained fury: ‘We are heartsick at the loss of Princess Elia of House Martell; of the man leading her party, Lord Brandon Stark, and his wife and their child! We have lost our dear friend and Kingsguard, Prince Lewyn of House Martell! So I ask you all, what am I to do? The Blighted Knight kills infants still at their mother’s breast! He kills men whose only orders are to protect others! This he has done close to King’s Landing itself! Am I to tolerate this any longer?’

Oswell watched as the gathering whipped up into a baited frenzy. He had not quite agreed with the King’s decision to mislead the people, to act as if the Blighted Knight was not already captured. Now he did: Rhaegar wanted them to fear the Blighted Knight, he wanted them to demand justice. Most of all, he wanted Tywin Lannister to believe he was still a threat.

Rhaegar got what he wanted as voices rose up with demands for justice and blood-soaked vengeance.

‘No!’

‘No, no!’

‘Never!’

‘Justice for the Princess!’

‘Kill him! And all his men!’

Oswell despised them all for their cowardice, self-absorption and willingness to jump on a bandwagon only when it was too late.

‘Then I shall know how to act.’ Rhaegar the King nodded almost imperceptibly.

Oswell and Ser Barristan moved then. They seized Tywin Lannister by the arms and hauled him before the throne before any Lannister man could act.

The King looked down at him, purple eyes blazing and his entire being thrumming with the power of the Targaryen dynasty, as though he had summoned his ancestors to stand with him.

Oswell glanced at Jaime, guarding his King while his feared father was seized. His expression was utterly blank, even as Cersei screamed.

The King looked down at the man like he hated him more than any other person he had ever known. ‘Tywin Lannister, you are charged with inciting violence against the people of the Seven Kingdoms; of treason against your King; and of the murders of Elia Martell and her party. You will be tried and if found guilty, you will be executed.’

‘That may be,’ Tywin replied. ‘But before you act against me, _Your Grace_ , I ask you one question: Where is your wife?’

Rhaegar’s pale face drained of what little colour it had. ‘Take him to the Black Cells.’

Tywin’s green eyes narrowed and his expression twisted into hate, but he did not fight against Whent or Selmy.

As Oswell left the Hall, he heard an explosion of noise as the audience began to talk amongst itself. Black armour glinted in his peripheral vision as Rhaegar swept out of the room.

The march down to the Black Cells was silent except for the tromp of boots against flagstone, and the scrape of Tywin Lannister’s toes: He and Barristan made a point of dragging rather than letting the man walk under his own locomotion.

Tywin laughed softly to himself as he was tossed into the cell. ‘Your Queen is not on Dragonstone.’

‘You will pay for your crimes, Lannister. In the meantime, make yourself comfortable. You’ll be here for some time.’ Oswell let the door swing shut and allowed the jailer to lock the door.

As they left, he took the key from the jailer. ‘Nobody may enter that cell without my permission.’

‘There’s probably other copies of the key,’ Barristan muttered as they made their way up to the fresh air and light a million miles from the Black Cells.

Oswell sighed. ‘At least this way there’s a chance.’

 

*

 

Rhaegar XX

Once secluded away from curious stares and the calculated gazes of those who would do him and his family harm, cocooned in the relative safety of his bedroom, Rhaegar fell to his knees with such force that pain shot up his legs and radiated all the way to his shoulders.

His hair hung in his face, hiding his terrified and sorrowful sobs even from his own reflection. Beyond his fear lay the enraged dragon, waking from a long slumber.

Rhaegar had spent his whole life keeping this part of himself under good regulation, even suppressed, but he now felt no desire to continue such control. He felt it unfurl as if it were a real, living and breathing dragon and not merely the metaphorical manifestation of his familial line.

He would _burn them all._

Even now, Rhaegar’s rational mind fought. He would not be like his father. He would not! There would be Justice, not revenge. As long as Lyanna was returned to him unharmed, justice was still possible.

If she was not returned unharmed, then the only possibility was of a conflagration that would consume the Seven Kingdoms. There would be no mercy and people would think of the reign of Aerys fondly in comparison. If she was not returned…

Once he had his roiling soul back under his command, the King summoned Jaime Lannister to his side.

Jaime was one of the most arrogant and prideful young men Rhaegar had ever known, so it was a true shock to see the boy fall to his knees.

‘I didn’t know, Your Grace. Please believe me. I didn’t know. My father doesn’t trust me with his plans or his thoughts. He knows I am sworn to the crown, to you.

Rhaegar believed him, and had not expected that. Jaime Lannister’s honour was nothing compared to the steady immovability of the Starks, but it shone out nonetheless. He had taken an oath and he had - and would - keep it.

‘I must ask of you a difficult service, Ser Jaime.’

‘Ask and it shall be done, Your Grace.’

‘I need you to fetch your sister.’

‘That’s nothing- _oh_.’

‘She will come quietly if you ask it.’

Jaime hesitated, thinking carefully. ‘There is one man whose summons she will answer more eagerly than mine.’

‘Whose?’ For a moment, Rhaegar swore that Jaime looked at him with burning jealousy, but it cleared.

‘Yours, Your Grace. Invite her and she will come without question.’

‘Will you fetch her, Jaime?’ Rhaegar asked.

‘Of course, Your Grace.’

‘Thank you.’

Jaime paused at the door. ‘This is a test, isn’t it? Of my loyalty to you?’

Rhaegar gave no answer, but when Oswell returned from the Black Cells, he raised an eyebrow at his king.

‘You trust him, Your Grace?’

‘If Cersei arrives, I will. He loves nobody more than her.’

‘That’s certainly the rumour, Your Grace.’

 

*

 

Cersei VI

 

Once, when she was young, Cersei Lannister persuaded her father to take her and Jaime to visit the Black Cells and the prisoners there held.

She had badgered Lord Tywin for days until he could be convinced, and even then more to shut her up than for any other reason. It was dark, clammy-cold and the stale, stinking air weighed heavy in her lungs.

Leaving the cells for the open, fresh freedom of her own life was intoxicating, a form of superiority: she could leave and the prisoners could not.

Even in her darkest nightmares, Cersei had never, ever imagined being resident in the Black Cells and yet here she was. Here through her own twin’s betrayal! Her brother to whom she had given so much of herself!

‘It is a terrible mistake,’ she repeated clearly ten times each time food - unedifying gunge not fit for pigs - was delivered.

She sat with poise even now, when her seat was a muck-covered flagstone floor and her only audience were the rats who chose this place of horror as a home.

Cersei knew, beyond a shadow of doubt, that her father would resolve all this nonsense.

‘My lady?’

Cersei had fallen into a light sleep and was roused by the voice on the other side of her cell door. Whether it was morning, afternoon or night, she knew not, nor even what day it was.

‘My lady?’

‘Who’s there? Jaime?’

‘Stannis Baratheon, my lady. Are you well?’

‘I’m in a cell. What do you think?’ Cersei wasn’t actually asking, of course. What a clod this idiot second Baratheon son was. ‘Why are you here?’

‘I came to ask if you knew anything of my brother-’

‘Robert? He’s hardly my concern.’

‘Nay, my lady. Not Robert, I ask of Renly.’

‘The boy? I know nothing. Why would you believe I did?’

‘He has disappeared, Lady Cersei. Snatched while returning to Storm’s End from Highgarden. Your father will not speak, despite the inducements offered during his own incarceration.’

‘I do not concern myself with _children_ ,’ she sneered. Yet her mind was whirring. Had her father taken the boy as insurance? That would be so very much like him. What was uncharacteristic was allowing himself to be jailed. Was it all part of a larger scheme, or had his luck run out?

‘My lady,’ Stannis’ voice was close and she pictured him with his mouth all but pressed against the cell door. ‘If you have an idea, please tell me. If you do, I shall… I shall speak for you to the King.’

‘What weight does your dull voice carry with such a man as King Rhaegar?’

‘I am to be married to his wife’s dearest friend.’

Ah. That _would_ mean something to a sentimental dolt like Rhaegar, whose fixation with his own wife was stomach-churning to witness. With her father also jailed, she had nobody to speak for her. Unless Jaime- No, he would not.

‘He may be at Crakehall. I know nothing of any plan for your younger brother, but I did hear my father speak of Crakehall recently.’

A cough. ‘If you speak true, you will have my gratitude-’

‘I do not want your gratitude; I want your words.’

‘It will be done.’ A pause. ‘If you speak true.’

 

*

 

Renly Baratheon was found just as Cersei said, so the already agitated Court was treated to the unprecedented and bizarre sight of Stannis Baratheon on his knees to the King, speaking in her favour.

Cersei had been brought up from the cells and had been forced to hear it all from a prone position to the side of the Iron Throne, where all could see her in chains. She had not been permitted to wash herself or otherwise make herself presentable.

Being locked up was a humiliation. Being forced to appear in front of the world in absolutely disarray was yet worse. She would have her revenge on them all!

Stannis spoke loudly, clearly for all to hear: ‘Lady Cersei aided me in finding my blameless young brother.’

Rhaegar, resplendent in a black-and-red cloak that shrouded him almost like the Stranger, quirked a silvery eyebrow at him. ‘You believe this is enough to spare her life?’

‘That is not for me to say, Your Grace. I speak only as I see. She spoke true when I asked for her assistance in finding Renly. That is all I can say.’

As recommendations went, it was lukewarm at best. Stannis had kept his word, but only to the lowest limit thereof.

‘Would you take her to wife, Lord Baratheon?’ the King asked.

Cersei looked up at that. Stannis’ expression did not change.

‘Your Grace, I am already promised to the Lady Selyse Florent. I would not break my word.’

‘If I ordered it?’

‘I will serve you, my king, as you see fit.’

Rhaegar cracked a slight, humourless smile. ‘I shall not demand you marry Cersei Lannister, my friend. I would not wish her poison on any man, woman or child. I am glad Renly is safe, my Lord. I wish you and dear Selyse a long and very happy, satisfying marriage.’

Stannis reddened a little and Cersei wondered if he even knew a woman’s touch. Likely not. It was a test. She would not be given to a second son when the king himself-#

‘Bring Cersei Lannister here.’

She was pulled and dragged in front of the throne, that intricate engineering feat she had coveted all her life - and forced to look up at him from the most supplicating of positions. Yet, all she could see was his commanding radiance, how his hair shone and eyes gleamed in the torchlight. What she would do for him, once she was queen!

‘Cersei Lannister, you will not die for your crimes, though your attempt to poison the queen on its own makes you eligible for the block.’

She gasped - how did he know about that?’

‘Conspiring against us, clouding in the murder of countless innocent people, of the murder of Brandon Stark and his family, of the murder of a Princess of Dorne, of the kidnap of the Queen… oh, you deserve death, but there is a punishment you will hate more. Take her away.’

Several women, in ugly grey cloaks that kept them concealed entirely, approached.

‘The Silent Sisters will be your house now, Cersei. Serve them faithfully or you will regret it.’

‘No!’ she screeched. ‘Not that. Anything but that!’

Even as he damned her, Rhaegar’s smile was magnificent. ‘Yes, that is the point.’

The last Cersei Lannister ever saw of Rhaegar Targaryen was the hem of that black-and-red cloak as he turned his back on her and she was hauled away.

 

*

 

Selyse III

 

Selyse had not slept a full night since the Queen was taken. Selyse claimed it was to ensure Prince Aegon - currently more valuable than ever, this boy who might represent the only surviving future of the Targaryen line - but in truth she was sick with worry and guilt.

The bodies arrived after three days, crudely preserved in salt before the embalmers could do their work.

The King ordered the great courtyard be cleared before the bodies of his friends arrived. They were carried on rickety wooden carts not fitting for such fine people, but Ser Arthur - blooded, broken, grieving but alive - gave great dignity to the procession.

He was too badly injured to ride, but he sat straight and true as he drove the cart, his white cloak bloodied on his broad shoulders.

Rhaegar himself insisted on helping his friend down with his own hands, and they met in a tight, bereft embrace.

‘Dear friend,’ Rhaegar began. ‘I am so-’

‘I am so sorry, Your Grace. I failed you-’

‘Never say that! You are the bravest knight I know.’

Arthur sank to the ground and Selyse wished she was not present, knowing he would hate anyone to see him so weakened. Rhaegar followed him to the floor, arms still gripping his friend.

‘I failed them, Rhaegar. I failed _her_. She was ripped from my grasp- he- he destroyed her before killing her. He made me witness every moment.’

‘Clegane and his master will pay, my friend.’

‘What price could they pay to make up for what has been done? No such punishment exists.’

‘Not by the hand of man, but the Stranger will have them and the Father will pass his judgement forever.’

‘I will kill Gregor Clegane.’

‘Aye, Arthur. You shall. Now, let Maester Luwin at you.’

‘What of Pycelle?’ Arthur struggled to walk, but Rhaegar remained steadfast at his side.

This was Selyse’s cue to come forward with a drink and a little bread for the returning knight, but he waved her away.

‘Indisposed.’

‘Oh.’

‘Black Cells. When my father died, he threw in his lot with Lannister.’

‘He’s always been in the lion’s maw.’

‘And now he will die for it. Luwin is a good man, he will see you well again.’

‘Nay, brother. I will never be well again.’

Rhaegar did not respond otherwise. ‘To the Maester with you. There has been enough death.’

‘You will deal with the prisoner?’

‘Worry not. I see that Ser Carolan has him under control.’ Rhaegar himself helped his friend into the Keep.

Selyse remained, and found a huge figure chained to the last of the carts. _The Blighted Knight_. Despite the state in which she found him, terror rose up through her whole body.

Stood over him was a young sandy-haired fellow she knew had been knighted recently. The Blighted Knight had, after all, created a number of vacancies in that regard. Seven gods, she had stood and watched his knighting only a moon or so past! He was barely a boy!

Yet, for all his youthful inexperience, Ser Carolan had his sword at Gregor Clegane’s throat. There was little the monstrous man could do: his right arm had been hacked away leaving only a bloody, infected stump below the shoulder. His feet were in irons and he was chained to the cart around the shoulder girdle and by his left wrist. He could not move and his feet had dragged against the ground for the whole journey. His boots were torn and worn away, leaving his soles exposed to the stones and dirt. He was currently unconscious, which was almost certainly the better for him. He did not, Selyse thought, deserve such mercy.

‘It slowed us down to haul him so,’ Ser Carolan explained to the King. ‘But we minded not. He deserves worse.’

Selyse looked away, feeling quite sick. ‘How did you take him down?’

‘It was all Ser Arthur in the end.’

‘What happened?’

‘This _blight_ fell upon us on the road with his men. They all descended upon Ser Arthur, knowing that were he able to fight, it would not last long. He was knocked out and that left Clegane and his men free to take the rest. I… I am ashamed to say I survived by climbing into the hollow of a tree. I saw it all but did nothing…’ Ser Carolan choked on his grief and shame.

‘Ser, there is no shame in trying to survive such a _creature_.’

‘Lady Ashara and Princess Elia fought, you know! They did not allow themselves to be easily taken. They made a fortress of their wheelhouse. Prince Lewyn was slain by the Blighted Knight. He took his head clear off!’

Selyse felt sick again but bade him continue. She needed to know _everything._

‘Once Prince Lewyn was dead, the rest of the guards lost heart, as I had done. Oh, my lady… I should’ve…’

‘Surviving is no crime. What _happened_?’

The Blighted Knight cut the child right out of Lady Ashara’s belly. She bled to death, calling for Brandon Stark… Princess Elia was… the Blighted Knight roused Ser Arthur. His men held him down and made him watch.’

‘Watch?’

‘Clegane raped the Princess. He… he cut her throat, with Dawn itself, and Ser Arthur was forced to watch it all. And do you know, her last words were of love for Ser Arthur.’

‘How did we come to _this?_ _’_ Selyse asked, pointing at the maimed Clegane.

‘Ser Arthur was so overcome with grief that he broke his bonds and fought off the Blighted Knight’s men. He didn’t have many, didn’t need them, see? And then they fought. Arthur wrested Dawn back, and took off Clegane’s arm. Got in under the armour, see? I know not where he got the strength from but… he was like a… like the Warrior himself, my lady. He was… it was like he was in a trance. But he was very badly hurt. He might have bled to death himself.’

‘But you were there.’

‘Yes, my lady.’ Ser Carolan reddened in shame again.

‘Nay, do not be ashamed, good Ser. I realise now, hearing your story, that the gods kept you safe, that you could then play your part. You have _saved the Sword of the Morning_. You have brought the Blighted Knight down. No other man has been able to do that.’

Ser Carolan wept a moment. ‘I should’ve done more.’

‘You could not. Now, I insist you be seen by a Maester.’

‘I am unharmed.’

‘No, you are not. Come along to Maester Luwin.’

 

*

 

With his injuries patched and his pain masked with milk of the poppy, Ser Arthur Dayne slept on, kept in one of the finest guest rooms in the entire castle. Rhaegar remained a while, but was pulled away by his duties. With the other Kingsguard working double shifts to accommodate their lowered numbers, and with Arthur’s other friends either dead or missing, Selyse offered to sit with him. She read to him from a history of The Night’s Watch, a dull and dry tome that she read steadily, in a voice intended to help ease his anguish.

Aegon played at her feet, absorbed by a set of wooden toys lately made by a craftsman in the city and designed entirely to distract the boy from the tensions around him.

It was all really too much to bear. Where was her lady, her queen, her dearest friend? Was she safe? Dead? What of the babe in her womb?

Selyse had tried awfully hard not to cry but a few tears slipped every now and then.

A knock on the door, quiet but curt, started her.

‘Come in.’

It was Stannis Baratheon, grave as ever. ‘My lady, I was told you Re here. I came to be sure of your comfort.’

‘I cannot be comfortable until my queen is back home, safe.’

‘Aye.’ Stannis left the door open, proper as always. He knelt beside her chair. ‘We are to be wed. It is right I ensure your wellbeing. Have you eaten recently? I can have tea brought-’

‘I could not. But thank you for your consideration.’

‘As you like, my lady.’

Aegon thrust a toy at Stannis, who looked bewildered.

‘He wants to play,’ she explained. ‘His father has been busy of late.’

‘I don’t- I have never-’

‘You do not play with Renly?’

‘But rarely, my lady.’

‘You should. You may practice now. With a prince, no less.’

‘I cannot.’

‘You would deny the future king his pleasure? His request to you?’

Stannis, Selyse knew, was a man of honour and principle even if he was a cold fish. She watched with almost-amusement as he knelt down onto the floor and reached for the toy Aegon held out. In response, Aegon tossed several more at him.

Stannis cleared his throat. ‘Now, what have we here, young prince?’

‘Dra!’

‘Dragon,’ Selyse supplied.

‘Oh, a dragon? A… fine beast. And a wolf too… and an excellent rendering of a stag, I see.’

Selyse watched them with increasing fondness as Stannis tried to play. He grew to be more at ease as the young prince charmed him and she swore that his iron-rod back even relaxed, just a little.

A bright moment in a bleak, dark day.


	45. Salt and Screams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for waiting patiently while the rest of my life hurtles along! It's a pretty long chapter, which I hope makes up for the wait. Also, Stuff Happens.
> 
> Also: quite a lot of the text was dictated into an app on my phone (iA Writer, which I recommend) and the ASOIAF words don't tend to translate well. I've proofed and whatnot, but some weird errors might've slipped through - do let me know if anything looks wonky!
> 
> Dedicated and written for, as always, DrHolland, who is a magnificent human being.

Sansa II

 

‘Stop! I don’t want to hear any more!’ Tears, hot and sharp, poured down Sansa’s face. She felt silly, of course she did. Aunt Lyanna was clearly and safely sat so close that she could reach out and touch her, which she did.

‘Oh, sweetling,’ Aunt Lyanna stroked Sansa’s hair. ‘All will be well.’

‘I know that! _Obviously_ it will because you’re here at this very moment but- oh, _please_ don’t tell us more tonight!’

‘Wimp,’ Arya muttered.

Lyanna’s silvery-grey eyes narrowed at her youngest niece. ‘Arya, being sensitive to the pain and suffering of others is neither cowardly nor weak.’

Arya withered a little under her aunt’s castigation, but scowled at Sansa nonetheless.

Sansa felt the sting of Arya’s insult keenly and tried her hardest to feel less _weak_. ‘I do want to hear the next part, Aunt Lyanna. Of course I do. Just… perhaps tomorrow, when I am not so tired? A good night’s sleep helps almost everything, Mother says.’

Aunt Lyanna kissed her on the forehead. ‘Your mother is right in that, certainly. We will resume this another time. Indeed, I would like to be strong and fortified before I relieve the next part of our story.’

The girls snuggled down into Sansa’s bed and let their aunt tuck them in as if they were much younger than they truly were.’

‘Sleep well, dearest ones.’ Aunt Lyanna extinguished the candles as she left and the only light remaining was the low red glow of the embers in the hearth.

‘Sorry Sansa,’ Arya mumbled.

‘Thank you.’ Sansa felt very grown up to be so gracious.

‘Aunt Lyanna is the bravest person ever.’

‘Yes, I think she must be.’

 

*

 

Sansa was late to breakfast the next morning and found that almost everyone else was nearly finished. Arya had taken the seat between the King and Queen, and chattered to them as if they were only Aunt and Uncle, and not also King and Queen of all Westeros.

Sansa wished she could be as cavalier as Arya. Arya wasn’t afraid of anything or anyone; Sansa herself sometimes felt she was afraid of all things at all times.

Someone nudged her shoulder as she stood in the doorway. ‘Come on, Sleepyhead!’

Aegon. he very gallantly offered her his arm. Oh she felt like a princess in a song as they entered together and the gathering all stopped to look at them.

‘Good morning, Sansa. Did you sleep well?’ her father asked from where he was, unusually sat with the younger boys, low in precedence.

‘Yes, thank you, Father.’

‘No nightmares?’ Aunt Lyanna called loudly, and earned a frown from Mother for being uncouth.

Sansa curtsied slightly, trying to remember her courtesies even at breakfast with her family. ‘Not that I can remember.’

‘That’s good.’

It was now Mother’s turn: ‘Sansa, if you don’t eat quickly, you will be late for your lesson with Septa Mordane.’

Sansa felt her face redden at being scolded - even lightly - by her mother in front of others. ‘I promise I won’t be late.’

She only had time to eat a little bread and butter, but as she still felt a little sick from the night before, that was quite sufficient.

Once again, the boys were going to ride out into the Wolfswood. For the first time, Sansa was irritated by the freedom granted them and denied to her. She loved to sew and read, but was she not also allowed to go outside, to have some of that kind of active fun?

Was this how Arya felt all the time? No wonder she was so difficult. Sansa was _not_ difficult, so she stamped out her feelings and trotted dutifully away to the classroom where Septa Mordane waited with Jeyne Poole and a few of the other Winterfell girls. More sewing.

Arya was not there, of course. She had probably invited herself onto the ride.

‘Septa Mordane?’ she asked.

‘Yes, Sansa?’

‘Might I go and fetch Lady? She must be cold down in the stables.’

‘It is not proper for a direwolf to trot around the castle. She is much too big to be indoors now. Especially in a room this size. Why, she’d break things!’

Sansa was just angry now. Lady was the most well-behaved of all the direwolves of Winterfell. She had never even knocked anything over! It was _Nymeria_ who bashed into furniture and broke things, and Arya didn’t even tell her off!

She put her embroidery circle down on the table and smoothed her skirt in imitation of her mother. ‘If she cannot come here, then I shall go to her.’

Sansa ignored the septa’s annoyed instructions as she swept out of the room.

As the young princes and little lords had already left, the stables were quiet but for the stable boys busy mucking out. Lady jumped to her paws at sight of Sansa and bounded at her. It was all Sansa could do to stay on her feet as Lady nuzzled her. Her direwolf was almost fully grown and stood taller than Sansa herself now.

‘Careful, Lady,’ she chastised, but gently. ‘I mustn’t get dirty. I’m in enough trouble as it is.’

As always, Lady understood. Sansa wrapped her arms around Lady’s soft, thick neck and felt the fur tickle her nose. They wandered a little aimlessly around the courtyard before, as if by mutual agreement, they headed into the Godswood.

Lady was by far and away the best behaved of all the Stark dire wolves, but she was still a direwolf and as soon as they were amongst the trees, she howled once and sprinted off. Sansa minded not, knowing her wolf would be back soon enough, once she’d found an unfortunate woodland creature to eat.

It was quiet and serene in the Godswood and Sansa felt all her cares and irritations ebb away as she meandered towards the Heart Tree and the pool. There, she made her prettiest prayers to the new gods, and then to the old ones she gave prayers that felt more foreign to her tongue: wishes for her family’s continued good health; prayers that she might grow up to be both beautiful and kind, that she would be a credit to the name Stark.

A breeze rippled through the Godswood and stirred the water’s surface. Her own reflection there twisted and she was forced to look away. Lady nuzzled her warm, wet nose against Sansa's hand.

‘I know, Lady. It is as Aunt Lyanna says: all will be well. I just… I wish it would be well _sooner_.’

Winterfell was more used to snow than rain, but it stood to reason that as Sansa was far from the warmth of the castle, the clouds should burst open. She and Lady rushed as quick as they could, but they were soaking wet by the time they reached the stables again.

The stable master moved to take Lady but Sansa was compelled to care for her wolf by herself, not caring at all about herself then. Only when Lady was dry and warm by the stable hearth, did Sansa leave for the Keep.

Mother was waiting, silently furious. ‘Up to your room, Sansa. A bath will be drawn for you.’

‘But-’

‘Had you remained at your lessons, you would not be in such a state. Up to your room. I will have some broth sent.’

The boys had not been far from home and had taken over the Great Hall to get dry and warm themselves. Their party was merry and rambunctious as she passed. Only when Aegon and Jon approached did she finally feel self-conscious about her dreadful appearance.

‘Caught in the rain?’ Jon asked.

‘Us too! Come and get warm,’ Aegon said.

Sansa shook her head: She had disobeyed enough today. ‘I must go to my room.’

Aegon shrugged. ‘This is one of your rooms, isn’t it, young Stark?’

‘Leave her be,’ Jon replied. ‘I hope you don’t fall ill, Sansa.’

‘Thank you, Your Grace.’

‘Cousin!’ Aegon called out after her as she rushed away, face burning from fever or embarrassment, or both. ‘We’re not Your Grace to you, surely?’

Mortification kept her from replying. The Rebellion of Sansa Stark was over.

 

*

 

Sansa fell ill, of course. She was kept in bed with a cold for three days, and only the visits of Arya and Aunt Lyanna could cheer her.

‘Are you ready for the next part of our tale?’ Aunt Lyanna asked. She was the only person who had not teased Sansa for getting caught in the rain, and so Sansa felt a great deal of affection for her aunt at the moment.

‘Yes please!’ she replied, punctuated by a sneeze that made Arya laugh.

‘Well, where was I?’

‘Captured!’ Arya called from her place by the fire with Lady. At least Lady had been allowed up to Sansa’s room while she was ill.

‘Very well…’

 

*

 

Lyanna XXI

When Lyanna regained consciousness after only restless, anxious sleep, everything ached. She was so close to her time now that she had given almost everything to the child. She could barely breathe, barely move. There was no more give in her belly, no more space.

Tossed into a dungeon after their aborted escape, Jon had done his best to make her comfortable, but the cell was cold, damp and there was not a stick of furniture to use, only the ledge of stone that doubled as a sleeping place - she refused to call it a bed.

A thin sheen of water covered the stone floor and turned so icy in the mornings that she dared not walk without Jon’s support, for fear of falling.

The single high window had bars but no coverings, so the harsh winds of Shipbreaker Bay whistled in and chilled her heavy limbs. Her fingers had been numb with cold so long she barely remembered them feeling normal.

Her limbs had fallen into dull pain and she winced, air hissing through her teeth as she tried to shift to a better position on the stone bench.

‘Your Grace!’ Jon dozed near the cell door, but leapt up at the sound of her stirring.

‘I am well, Jon.’

‘You look very pale.’

‘We’ve been in here for how many nights, now? Anyone would look pale.’

Her husband’s dear friend helped her sit up, though her belly prevented a posture she wished for. The bench was cold, damp and unyielding.

It had been this way for nine consecutive nights. They were given food three times a day, but it was of a most basic sort and lukewarm. Lyanna’s delicate, squashed stomach minded only a little.

They could not speak openly of any subject matter of importance, knowing too well that there were guards on the other side of the door.

When she needed to see to the basic necessities, Jon did his best to allow her privacy away from both himself and the guards, but she was less and less concerned with grace with every passing house.

‘I would like to take a turn,’ she said.

Jon held her securely as she stood and as they walked slowly around the cell: seven times in one direct, seven in the other. They passed the day best they could and devised a crude version of Noughts & Crosses using water and bare wall.

‘Stop letting me win, Connington. It’s dull.’

As the day wore on, a new storm swirled in ever increasing intensity, far worse than any since they’d arrived at this keep under Baratheon’s questionable care.

The milky light in the cell turned grey and dark earlier than usual. Harsh, salty spray pushed in through the open window, carried by the gale and tumult of the sea below.

Jon had given her his Cloak days before it hung around her now, wet and freezing.

Her pains began almost with the first flash of lightning in the sky above.

‘No!’ She cried out to the gods more than anyone. ‘Not here!’

Jon understood immediately and barked several orders to the guards that involved fresh towels, hot water and a firm suggestion that the Queen be moved to more suitable accommodations.

He was completely ignored. Lightning flashed again and water burst through the bars of the window, a sharp and salty mixture of rain and sea spray.

‘Very well.’ Lyanna's spirit, a flaming thing that had been dying down in her captivity, roared to life. ‘Then the prince will be born here. Is the will of the gods, perhaps?’

‘Your Grace, I know nothing of ladies – things.’ Even in the dim light she could see Connington’s face go almost red as his hair.

‘Then you will learn very quickly indeed. Are you wearing an undershirt beneath your tunic?’

‘Yes, but I fear it is not clean-’

‘Cleaner than anything else we have to hand.’

Jon removed it as quickly as his damp, stiff fingers allowed, during which time she had folded the wet cloak along the bench as a very crude birthing bed.

She admired his ability to remain calm in these most trying circumstances, but she also saw terror in his eyes.

‘Jon, dear Jon,’ she sought her most soothing tones, those she kept for Aegon’s more temperamental moments. ‘Fear not. Women birth babes in conditions worse than this all the time.’

His gaze cast about. ‘Worse than this?’

‘We have four study walls and a strong roof. A fire to be warm would be nice, but we are not in such a terrible position, not really. Now, it may take some time until the worst of it so…’

‘Mayhap Rhaegar will arrive in time?’

‘I thought more that we might press the guards for assistance again, but your optimism gives me much hope.’

Time passed, with the pain is increasing both in frequency and in intensity, until Lyanna’s screams filled the dungeon, bouncing off the wet stone to return to her and rattle her head.

Regards had responded only by bringing a bucket of almost warm water before retreating to stand sentry some distance away.

Lyanna began to weep in the sixth hour, as her malnourished, badly-rested body wore out and her desperation was able to take hold.

The storm surged closer, more frequent lightning sporadically illuminating their dark cell.

‘Be brave as you always are,’ Jon told her. ‘The bravest of all the ladies I have ever known.’

‘No,’ she whimpered. ‘Not brave. Foolish. I have a... it's my fault Brandon and Ser Gerold are dead. My fault–’ she stopped as another contraction built and tore through her.

‘You don't have much further to go. I can see the very top of the little prince’s head. You can do it, Lyanna.’

‘I can't-’

‘Don't you want to ruin Baratheon’s plans? Spite Tywin Lannister? Another dragon prince will do just that. Prove yourself so much greater than they, Leanna! You are the She-Wolf of Winterfell! You, who captured Rhaegar's heart. No other person could ever do so. Now, take a deep breath and push!’

She did as he instructed, and her screams rose even above the thunder outside it seemed, as her son left the comfort and safety of her womb to the freezing storm outside. It was quick after that: Jon pulled at the child’s tiny shoulders as she had hastily explained he ought.

The world itself froze to hear that babe’s first wail. Lyanna heaved a long, deep breath of exhaustion as her body adjusted to its new emptiness. Would her boy-

She could only manage a fatigued rasp: ‘Is it a boy, Jon? Does he does breathe? Jon?’

A piercing, furious cry filled the darkness and so too, her heart. The child lived!

‘It is a boy!’ Jon had the child safe in his arms.

Lyanna struggled to sit up on the stone, leaning her hot head against the cold wet wall. Her hair itched against her skin, damp and salty from sweat and the storm. She watched him dither about the afterbirth, and with little more than a grimace, he separated boy from placenta with his teeth. The latter fell to the ground with a wet slap and was ignored.

Jon wrapped the child in Lyanna's discarded underskirt and handed him to his mother.

Lyanna held the babe close to her chest with shaking arms. She noted first the head of dark hair already present and shifted the material.

‘A boy, Jon! Another boy!’

‘Indeed, Your Grace.’ Lyanna smiled at his return to formality now the worst was over. ‘He is a fine, hearty boy. No wonder you screamed so.’

She yawned.

He continued, ‘And we shall never speak of it again.’

‘No Jon, I… I could not have endured it without you. Dearest friend. Thank you.’

Jon bowed, a parody of courtly manners in such a place as they were kept. ‘I am always at your service, Your Grace.’

‘I know you love Rhaegar – I hope you will love his son too.’

‘My love for my king cannot be replicated but… I already love this little prince as I love Prince Aegon. I will give my life for them both. Now, you must rest. I will try to rouse the guards again, that they might provide better for the babe than they have us.’

Lyanna’s eyelids were heavy then, and with the knowledge that her russet-headed friend would watch over them, she slipped into much needed sleep.

 

*  


She awoke into the near-silence that settled upon the land after such a severe storm as that night had seen. She cradled her son close to keep him warm and waited an agonised moment to see that he still breathed, still lived. He did… but her immediate concerns were for his continued survival. They _had_ to get out of this infernal cell, and soon!

The boy latched onto her breast with ease, and she was relieved that he, at least, would be sufficiently fed for now.

‘Jon… We must get out of here. Somehow. I know not how, but we must. We cannot survive much longer…’ She felt dizzy as she sat up straight.

Jon was stood at the cell door and turned when he heard her stir. ‘Tis just us, Your Grace.’

‘Pardon?’

‘The guards left during the night and were not replaced. This is our chance to get out.’

‘Can you get the door open?’

‘I have been working at the hinges since it was light enough to see. I hope to get the bolts out and open it thusly. It will take some time. How do you feel?’

‘Terrible, but… at least there has been no more bleeding. I refuse to succumb to child-bed fever after all this.’

The door was old and the storm had left it wet enough that Jon was able to wrench a rotting panel from it, free to do as he pleased without guards to prevent his act of destruction.

With brute strength that was nearly miraculous given how starved they were, Jon was able to destroy enough of the door for them to pass through.

He held a hand out to her. ‘Your Grace, it is time to take our leave.’

She nodded, relief tempered by fear of what they might find outside. Lyanna’s legs felt about as strong as wet bread, but Jon held her steady. He almost lifted her up the stairs, and she knew not where he was finding strength to carry on. From necessity, she supposed, as her own legs grew a little stronger with proper use.

They paused at the door to the courtyard. All was quiet.

‘I feel we have been abandoned,’ Jon whispered. ‘That may be for the best. I will go first and see if I can find a cart or… something. I will knock on the door three times. Do not move unless you hear that.’

Jon slipped out of the door, leaving Lyanna alone for the first time in what felt like years. Her son snuffled in slumber, and she pressed a kiss to his forehead.

‘I swear to the old gods,’ she whispered to him. ‘There will be blood for what has been done to us.’

There then came three knocks on the door. She froze, fearful. It was too quick for Jon to have found anything useful.

‘Come out, Your Grace. We are safe.’ Jon sounded strange. Perhaps it was the sound through the door, but his voice trembled in a way she felt could only be fear. ‘There is nothing to fear.

She nudged the door open with her foot and blinked against the bright light of day. Jon handed her out into the courtyard. No keep was ever silent or still, and this was the first time Lyanna had experienced such a total desertion of such a place.

The storm had hit hard, but that did not seem to be the reason for the abandonment. The gates were wide open and there was a mess of boxes, abandoned fires and other detritus that spoke to a panicked, hasty departure.

‘Sit here, Your Grace…’ Jon pulled up a crate that still possessed some structural integrity. ‘I will see what I can find.’

Lyanna soaked up the warmth of the sun while Jon headed into the stables, where the storm had wrecked the canvas roof that now fluttered in the breeze. A few errant tears slipped from her eyes. They were not safe yet, but oh… the promise of freedom was so close!

Jon emerged from the stables empty-handed and frowning. ‘My apologies, Your Grace. I cannot… ah!’

He disappeared off in another direction and returned after long, anticipatory moments with a small handcart of the type used by kitchen servants to transport food from garden to kitchen. ‘Tis not much but-’

‘It is enough, dear Jon.’ Lyanna shifted from the crate and arranged her son in his makeshift swaddling clothes securely into the cart. ‘Do you suppose there are any discarded uniforms or… any garments?’

‘Let me see…’ Jon now headed into the keep itself. He returned with a bundle of old, not particularly clean tunics. ‘Not much but…’

‘Anything is better than this.’ Lyanna pointed to her torn, blood soaked dress.

He turned his back as she shimmied out of the dress, which almost fell apart upon removal, and threw the tunic on over her shoulders.

‘Much better,’ she said.

He frowned at the Baratheon stag on the back. ‘I suppose it will do for now.’

‘Any weapons?’

‘Nothing, I am afraid.’

‘Then nothing will have to do. Come along then Jon, I cannot spend another moment in this hellish place.’

They left the keep behind as quick as they could, following the road into dense woodland. Lyanna was able to walk, but pain and tiredness kept her pace slow. The cart rattled along the storm-blown road and the child awoke with a discontented wail.

‘Shh, sweet one.’ Lyanna reached down and the child grabbed her finger.

‘We will pause here, Your Grace.’

‘Very well… but let us leave the road. We don’t want to run into anyone we wouldn’t want to.’

They took shelter behind a thick shrub, where Lyanna nursed the boy to sleep again.

‘We should head towards-’ Jon stopped abruptly, listening. ‘Shh.’

‘What?’

The rumble of horses - lots of them - grew louder and the ground began to vibrate as they approached. Closer, and closer, and closer. Lyanna’s heart was almost in her mouth. Were they hidden well enough? Would her son wake and give their hiding place away with crying she would not be able to silence?

‘Stay here, Your Grace,’ said Jon. ‘I will go.’

‘Please don’t! Stay… if you are taken or killed, what will happen to us?’ it was the most vulnerable she had ever, ever felt, and she wanted to be sick with fear. It had been one thing to be captured pregnant. To be captured with her son now present and absolutely at anyone’s mercy… twas too much.

‘I am just going to look… I will not leave you.’

Jon disappeared through the undergrowth. Waiting, Lyanna felt nothing but the beat of her own heart and the faint, gentle warmth of her son’s tiny body. She thought of nothing but the ways in which they would be destroyed.

She heard a few shouts then, and the rumble of horses faded as they came to a halt.

‘Your Grace!’ a voice called out. ‘Do come out.’

She did not reply. It wasn’t Jon. It might be a trap. If he was taken-

Another new voice: ‘Hiding in shrubs? That does sound like Lyanna Stark, one must admit.’

Lyanna’s heart felt as though it fallen out of her chest and dropped to the ground like a stone.

 _No_ _…_ she closed her eyes and tried to stop more tears. It could not be…

The shrub shook violently for a moment and then was still. She dared not open her eyes and clutched the boy to herself.

A hand touched hers and she felt hot breath against the side of her face.

‘Might I meet my son, darling wife?’

She could not open her eyes. It could not be Rhaegar. No, the gods surely did not favour her so! How could he be here now, after everything that had happened?

Yet the hand was gentle and another tilted her chin up. ‘Open your eyes, my love.’

Finally, she did, and her gaze rested immediately upon the face she loved most in AL the world. ‘Oh! _Rhaegar_!’

It truly was her beloved. He looked tired and road-weary but it was his silvery hair, dusty and tangled; his warm purple eyes that held nothing but love and concern for her and the child. His armour prevented an embrace, so he rested his forehead against her own. ‘We have been looking for you for _days_.’

‘It feels like months. Years.’

‘I know.’

She allowed herself a slight smile. ‘Have you left anyone alive while you searched?’

He smiled a little himself. ‘Mostly… We have Tywin Lannister in the Black Cells. He would not give up anything. It was a miracle that we came upon some Baratheon men two nights ago and have been giving chase since.’

Lyanna briefly explained the events of the last day from her own perspective. The Baratheon men must have abandoned the keep when they knew King Rhaegar was closing in on them, only to run directly into a force led by the King himself.

Rhaegar expressed no joy, but grim satisfaction as he concluded the tale: ‘We caught Robert this morning.’

‘Is he dead?’

‘No. Not yet. We will take him back to King’s Landing.’

‘Very well.’ Lyanna’s darkest soul wanted him torn to shreds. Her rational mind knew that a public trial would be much more powerful. ‘I just want to go home.’

‘We will. I could not believe my luck when that Griffin's head appeared out of this ridiculous bush. And that’s probably the only time that such a statement will ever be true.’

His joke, which was not especially funny, made Lyanna shake with hysterical laughter for a moment. ‘He saved us, Rhaegar. He _saved_ us.’

‘I know.’ His face was grimly set again. ‘Now, let us go home.’

Lyanna struggled to her feet, so Rhaegar took, for the first time, his son in his arms.

‘He is a fine boy,’ he said, looking down at him. ‘He has the Stark look already.’

‘Do you mind having a dragon who looks like a wolf?’ Lyanna asked. In spite of all the greater troubles, this had been bothering her a little.

Rhaegar’s smile could have lit King’s Landing for a week. ‘On the contrary, I am supremely happy. I will thank the old gods and the new for their protection and beneficence.’

‘How is Aegon? He must- oh, does he miss me?’

‘Dreadfully. Selyse has her hands full with him. She hasn’t strayed from Arthur Dayne’s side, either.’

‘Oh!’ More tears from Lyanna. ‘You must tell me-‘

‘On our way home. No wheelhouse, I’m afraid, but we do have a cart that might do.’

‘It will… I wish I could ride Vhagar-‘

Rhaegar laughed then, and she felt like her heart had finally started beating again after weeks of hibernation. ‘I _knew_ I was right to leave that beast at home! You’ll get into the cart and you won’t complain, terrible woman!’

Lyanna laughed then, as much as she could manage with a throat sore from screaming. ‘For once, my dearest love, I will obey you.’

Rhaegar feigned a swoon. ‘Seven hells! Lyanna Stark, obeying me?’

Rhaegar helped her up, and together they returned to the King’s troop. Sure enough, there was a small, unimpressive but fully-functioning cart used for transporting arms. These had been moved aside to allow the Queen and the Prince space to rest comfortably. Jon sat with them, too wrecked to ride on his own.

As they started to move and came out of the woods, Jon began to recount the tale of the birth to his king. She saw Rhaegar's eyes widen, then narrow. She fancied she could see the thoughts forming in his mind.

She knew the prophecies almost as well as he did, after all.


	46. Sentence and Sword

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for your comments! Lots happening in this one, which I hope is to your liking!

Rhaegar XXI

 

 

It took everything Rhaegar had in him not to simply climb into the cart with Lyanna and their son, wrap himself around them and not stir until they were home again. He rode alongside, keeping them in sight at all times.

Lyanna slept, drained by all her recent experiences, but every so often a rut in the road would jostle the cart and she would rouse, seek him out and smile when she caught sight of him close by.

The journey was easy enough. The smallfolk they passed were full of joy and gratitude to the King and his men for ridding them of the Blighted Knight and gladdened at the sight of the Queen.

Somehow, stories of the Queen’s abduction had flown around the Seven Kingdoms swifter even than ravens’ wings could carry them. The news of a son radiated out from the King’s party like ripples on a pond and by the time they reached Bronzegate and rested before the final leg of the journey, hundreds of people lined the streets to see the King, Queen and Prince. The cheers, applause and affection the people provided was almost enough to warm Rhaegar’s cold and bitter heart.

Lord Buckler and his wife had rooms ready for them and in particular, Lady Buckler was ready for the Queen.

‘My wardrobe is at your disposal, Your Grace,’ she said, deep in curtsy as she greeted them. ‘I know you have been through a terrible ordeal.’

‘Thank you.’ Lyanna’s voice was not much more than a whisper.

‘Firstly,’ Lady Buckler continued, ‘a bath is ready for you, and a wet nurse for the child.’

‘Thank you,’ Lyanna repeated. ‘The former is gratefully accepted but I have no need for the latter.’

Lady Buckler’s eyes widened, then narrowed as she took in the unexpected news that the Queen was nursing her own son.

‘Your thoughtful hospitality will not be forgotten,’ Rhaegar interrupted. ‘I hope you do not mind if we trespass on your kindness for a few days? I would have my wife, child and dear friend recovered before we move on.’

Now it was Lord Buckler’s turn to scowl almost imperceptibly as he calculated the cost of hosting the King’s party. Rhaegar fought the urge to plunge his sword through the man’s chest. He was, after all, sworn to House Baratheon, and the sight the previous day of Robert Baratheon taken to King’s Landing in chains cannot have rested well with the man.

‘My Lord Buckler,’ Rhaegar spoke loudly enough for all nearby to hear. ‘We will not have you out of pocket for us, fear not.’

Buckler blushed a deep red and bowed deep. ‘Your Grace, you are welcome with us. I thought not of gold dragons, only-’

‘Only?’

‘I fear that Bronzegate is not equal to the level of comfort Your Graces deserve.’

‘My Lord,’ Lyanna now joined the conversation. ‘Robert Baratheon kept me in a dungeon for days, where I birthed my son. Your home will be more than equal to the comfort we need for the present.’

Buckler’s blush actually deepened. If anyone was in doubt about the identity of the Queen’s abductor, no longer. ‘Of course, Your Grace. Nothing is too much for you. May I-’

‘As your good lady wife said, a hot bath will be most restorative.’

The Bucklers led the way into their home. It was plainer that the Red Keep of course, and less vast than Storm’s End but was pleasant enough, for a family of their level.

Lady Buckler took Lyanna into her own personal suite of rooms, and Rhaegar lost sight of his wife for the first time since their reunion. He tried to ignore the flood of anxiety that assailed him then, but could not.

Jon was behind him and placed a comforting hand on his arm. ‘She’ll not be far away.’

Rhaegar shook his head. ‘I cannot- I mean-’

‘I know, old friend.’

‘I can never repay you for the service you have done us.’

Jon blinked. ‘Repayment? I did my duty to my Queen and to… I would like to think I would behave so for any lady in such circumstances. I only wish I could have done more-’

‘You kept them alive for me, Jon. I cannot… dear friend. Thank you.’

‘Lyanna did the same for me. I might have crumbled without her strength.’

Rhaegar could only nod for a moment. ‘Get yourself looked after, Jon. We will need all our strength and wits for our return to King’s Landing.’

‘Do you really have Tywin Lannister in the Black Cells?’

They had purposely kept to brief updates while in the presence of others, so Jon was not quite fully in possession of the facts just yet.

‘When I left the Landing, yes. I wouldn’t put it past him to get out somehow…’

‘You know what has to be done?’

Rhaegar felt as though his whole face turned to stone. ‘Oh, yes.’

 

*

 

A few hours later, Rhaegar joined his wife and son in Lady Buckler’s chamber. Lyanna looked much improved. A bath, nap and hearty stew had worked miracles, although she was still covered in bruises and scrapes. Dark circles lingered under her eyes and she curled up in the bed, moving slowly when she moved at all.

A makeshift crib had been provided for their son, and since arriving, Rhaegar had taken up a place beside it and had not moved. He gazed down at the child, feeling new, warm love bubble up within him.

‘He needs a name,’ he said.

‘His name is Jon,’ Lyanna replied, quite as if it was settled upon already.

Rhaegar’s eyes narrowed. ‘A Targaryen prince cannot be a Jon.’

She rolled her eyes at him. ‘Said _Prince Duncan_ _’s_ favourite nephew.’

‘That’s different.’

‘How?’

He spluttered rather gracelessly then, trying to find the right way to speak his meaning. ‘He was- Our son- Lyanna, our son must have a name fitting-’

Lyanna’s expression transformed then: eyes narrow and nascent anger twisting her mouth. Yet, she spoke in absolutely flat calm tones. ‘Rhaegar, are you of the belief that this _newly born child_ is the subject of your bloody prophecy?’

‘He is, Lyanna. I am certain-’

It was a relief to say so. His certainty was as firm as any conviction he had, settled upon his heart as though the Father himself had put it there. All the signs-

‘You cannot be _certain_. We spoke of this! At length, we did-’

‘That was before. Born in salt and smoke! And he was conceived on the day of the funeral- salt and smoke again.’

‘Rhaegar, you cannot know-’

‘I do know. I feel it.’

Lyanna almost barked her scorn. ‘Knowing and feeling are not identical. It is too much to put onto a child’s shoulders. You cannot know. After all that, it could be Aegon-’

‘It isn’t.’

‘How do you know?’

‘The omens were all wrong. Aegon is to be King. His destiny is elsewhere. Tis Jaehaerys who will-’

_‘Jaehaerys_? Are you choosing my son’s name without me after all?’

‘It was merely an idea.’ He had the good form to blush then, or the diplomacy to do so.

Lyanna shifted to face away from him. ‘You have decided.’

‘No. Yes. Lyanna, please understand-’

She twisted back toward him and fixed him with a glare of steel and ice. ‘I understand you are truly the King, whose word is law. I _understand_ that no matter how much you love your wife and your family, and I know you do, your fucking prophecy still means more. Even after _everything-_ ’

Rhaegar crumbled. ‘I am sorry, Lyan-’

‘Prove it. Be with your family now, not with dusty old tomes of questionable veracity. Love your children whether they fit your harbingers or not. Be with _me_ , not long-dead prophets.’ She reached out to touch his face.

Rhaegar moved to climb onto the bed and his long limbs curled around hers. ‘I am so _afraid_ , my love. I cannot protect you. Look at you-’

Lyanna’s taut limbs softened. ‘The plan was of my devising. It was all my doing. Brandon, Ashara… their child. Elia and Ser Gerold… the scores of soldiers whose names I never knew. It is all my fault.’

The words now spoken out loud, her admission made, Lyanna wept. Rhaegar and Lyanna clutched each other close, two broken people united in grief and fear. In his crib, Jon-Jaehaerys slept on, mercifully unaware of their grief.

‘It is my fault,’ Lyanna whispered. ‘It is… everyone must pay for their sins and I…’

‘Shh, my love. The blame does not sit with you. The idea was yours, the execution was mine… but the crime sits with Tywin Lannister, and Robert Baratheon, and Clegane. It is they who will face the Father and Stranger.’

He shifted only slightly to make them more comfortable. Lyanna wept still, and it occurred to him that he had never seen her so distressed, so agonised. Not when she was a terrified new wife trying to pretend all was well, not when his father was at his worst… He silently cursed Tywin Lannister once again.

‘They will pay for their crimes,’ he murmured to her. ‘They will pay. As for our son… He will be known to all as Jon. But his true name, as the gods will know him, will be Jaehaerys.’

Lyanna yawned now her tears had faded away. ‘As you wish, my love.’

 

*

 

After only two days at Bronzegate, Lyanna declared it was time to return home. Rhaegar felt she would benefit from a day or two longer, but she wanted to be home, safe behind their walls and, as she tartly reminded him, their other son was waiting for them.

The journey through the Kingswood was easy enough and in King’s Landing they were greeted by more cheering crowds.

Prince Jon Targaryen was presented to the court two days later. He was smaller than Aegon had been at the same age, and was clearly in the Stark mould. He was quiet and did not cry even when the roar of applause rose to rattle the high roof of the Great Hall.

To the world, he was Jon Targaryen, named after the Hand who had so gallantly served the Queen and prince in their hour of greatest need.

In the most secret part of King Rhaegar’s heart, he hid a feeling that could never be spoken: perhaps the carnage of the Blighted Knight and the massacre of his dearest friends was worth it, if it brought them Jaehaerys, the Prince That Was Promised.

How many lives was one prophesied prince worth?

 

*

 

Time passed in something of a blur as those injured, by what the people were calling the Lion’s Great Coup, recovered. Rhaegar kept himself busy with his sons - and he did try to spend as much time with Aegon as with Jon - and with the business of getting Tywin Lannister brought to justice.

After a week, Arthur Dayne was back at his post against Maester Luwin’s advice and despite Rhaegar telling him to go back to bed. The sorrow in Arthur’s eyes was enough to stop Rhaegar’s heart, but his whispered plea to be of use was enough for the king to relent.

Lyanna took a day to rest and then applied herself to activity as fiercely as ever. It was as if she had not been captured, had not recently birthed a child. As with Arthur, he pleaded with her to rest, but he could not bring himself to deny her a thing and she applied herself to various tasks with verve. She did not approach his solar to discuss the Lannister Question.

A further week after their return to King’s Landing, the lords who had taken up arms against the new King were brought to the large square at the Great Sept of Baelor to have their sentences passed. A huge, hushed crowd gathered, eager to see the King, eager to see what justice he had in mind.

The day was a bright, clear-skied harbinger of the new Spring if ever there was such a thing. The throng of smallfolk booed as the lords were led out by goldcloaks, just as though this was a mummers’ show for their entertainment. They cheered wildly for their silver King in his gleaming black armour, and he accepted their love with the calm restraint for which he was known.

His surviving white-cloaked Kingsguard flanked him on the steps above the hastily constructed platform upon which an execution block, and the guilty men, waited. Rhaegar settled himself onto a portable wooden throne placed so that all might see him and he would have a fine view of the block.

The Queen followed a few paces behind and once beside him, raised a hand to silence the crowd.

‘In the North, he who passes the sentence should swing the sword,’ The Queen’s voice rang out loud and clear across the square. ‘We do find these lords guilty of treason against King Rhaegar and the Seven Kingdoms. He would have spared their lives but for the heinous crimes against our much loved Elia, a Princess of Dorne, the King’s first wife, our friend. King Rhaegar might have been merciful, but for the attack upon my person!’

Lyanna’s words rang out across the hushed gathering, who all apparently understood that they were bearing witness to an extraordinary moment in history.

Lyanna moved down to the execution block to address one of the prisoners, a broken but defiant figure in a tattered red and gold cloak. ‘Lord Tywin of House Lannister, you have been found guilty of treason; of conspiring to kill a Princess of Dorne and infanticide. Your lands are forfeit to the Crown. Your House is disgraced and you are attainted: stripped of your titles now and for all times! If we could remove you from history itself, we would! You will die today.’

Ser Jaime Lannister stepped forward bearing the Princess of Dorne’s own Valyrian steel sword _Greatspear_. A collective gasp fluttered around the crowd: was the Kingsguard about to commit patricide? No, for he handed it to the Queen. Tywin was pushed to the block by his guards.

‘You will forgive me,’ the Queen said, a bitter, wry smile upon her lips, ‘if this takes several attempts. I am only a little woman, after all.’

The crowd laughed with her, but all prayed that the execution would be smooth, for everyone knew that a badly-done beheading was a grotesque end that not even Tywin Lannister deserved.

‘You will make of yourself an unclean, unwomanly thing!’ he hissed at Lyanna. ‘A woman executioner is an evil thing.’

‘I am a Stark of Winterfell and the blood of the First Men runs in my veins,’ she replied, loud enough for all to hear. ‘We make our women strong and fierce, just as our men. We make warriors of our women! Now I am Lyanna of House Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and I am a warrior for them both, and I will carry out justice. She who passes the sentence swings the sword.’

Swing the sword, she certainly did. It took all her strength and if she stumbled a little, nobody was inclined to notice. The Valyrian steel of her friend’s family sword cut clean through the Lannister neck. The Old Lion’s head rolled away and landed after an undignified bump down a couple of steps.

There followed a moment of eerie silence as accompanied most executions, as those present realised they had witnessed the death of a human being. The metallic tang of spilt blood tingled at his nostrils and the fouler stench of loosened bowels followed. It was an undignified end for a man who had sought to rule the Seven Kingdoms from behind the throne.

King Rhaegar rose, armour clanking a little. He paced a moment, capturing all attention as he did.

‘My Queen was merciful,’ he spoke seemingly softly, but all could distinctly hear. ‘For the crimes this man was guilty of, we might have done much worse. Let it be known that we are merciful, but we are not soft. We are Father to the Seven Kingdoms and we will have justice for all our peoples. We are caring. We are nurturing. We do not accept violence against us. We do not tolerate plots against us. We do not let the murder of our friends go unanswered! We do not allow our beloved queen to be so mistreated! We will never, ever allow the murder of unborn children to go unpunished!’

The rest of the lords and conspirators were brought forward, with the exception of Robert Baratheon, whose fate was yet to be determined.

The executioner dispatched the minor conspirators with neat efficiency until the last. Ser Gregor Clegane, the huge Lannister man who was really not much more than a boy, and yet a murderer of dozens, if not hundreds of people, was brought. He was maimed and yet still struggled against his guards. The Kingsguard intervened then and King Rhaegar himself stepped down onto the platform.

Rhaegar’s own sword glinted in the light as he looked down upon the broken Blighted Knight. ‘I knighted you because I was told you were the strongest and bravest fellow seen lately. Your Lord vouched for you and your achievement at the Tourney bore this out. Yet you are depraved, a man of violence and hate used as a weapon by that man. You are forever attainted, Gregor Clegane. I have knighted many men, but you were the worst of those mistakes. I will have to live with that for the rest of my days. You will die for it.’

The King raised the sword and executed him with such force that the huge head of the Mountain skidded away from his body as if repulsed by himself.

‘Burn them,’ said the King. ‘Burn them all.’

 

*

 


	47. As It Should Be

Lyanna XXII

 

Although she had been absent no more than a couple of weeks, it was as if Lyanna had been gone from King’s Landing for years. The bustle and noise of the city was as unfamiliar as after her arrival from the North; the scrutiny to be endured in the Red Keep was intolerable, and had intensified with her choice to execute Lannister personally. The stares were more openly scornful than once upon a time; her husband’s subjects looked upon her with suspicion and contempt as they apparently agreed with Tywin Lannister that she made herself _unwomanly._

The world behind the King’s Chamber door, however, was as warm and welcoming and homely as she had conjured up in her mind during the worst moments of her captivity. She had imagined Rhaegar, his kindness and his fire both; thoughts of Aegon and how warm and soft her boy was and how his laugh soothed the lingering darkness in her mind.

‘Mama…’ Aegon now eagerly babbled at her, quite different from the tantrum-throwing little dragon he had been earlier, when nobody could comfort him.

‘Shall we go to see your little brother?’ she asked him.

Aegon did not quite understand the concept of brothers yet, but he understood “something exciting” so he nodded eagerly. Aegon safely in her grasp, they moved across the hall to the nursery, only to find someone else already there.

Rhaegar, sitting on a stool beside Jon’s crib, singing a soft lullaby with the assistance of his harp. Jon’s new nurse rested in the corner, outright adoration for the King clear on her face.

‘I didn’t know you were here,’ Lyanna spoke calmly but her irritation was quick to spark. To her knowledge, he had not done this for Aegon _ever_.

‘I had a few moments. I was about to come to you both.’

‘I’m sure.’

‘I was. Jae- Jon is a fine little thing, is he not?’

Lyanna crossed her arms and stared him down. ‘Yes, I’m quite fond. Aegon is also a _fine little thing_.’

Aegon reached his arms out towards his father. ‘Dada! Down, Mama!’

Lyanna rolled her eyes but nobody else noticed. Aegon did not realise his father’s true feelings ran closer to apathy than they should, and he idolised him.

Rhaegar set aside his harp and let Aegon scramble onto his lap. ‘Hello, little dragon. Tell me what you’ve been doing today.’

Aegon let loose a stream of babble, only a few words of which made complete sense. Lyanna watched as Rhaegar listened dutifully but not attentively, and as his gaze returned repeatedly to the infant in the crib.

She felt bile rise up in her throat and wanted nothing more in the moment than to wrap her hands around Rhaegar’s own throat and _squeeze_.

Lyanna turned on her heels and ran back to the solitude of her own chamber. Where had such violent impulses come from? Was Lannister correct? Had she become an unwomanly, an _inhuman_ thing?

She knew, as well as she knew her own name, that the execution of Tywin Lannister was right, proper and entirely just. She also knew that the death of King Aerys was no accident and if she was being punished by gods (old or new), it was for that. Tywin Lannister never knew that she had already made herself unwomanly, long before she swung the sword.

Apparently, killing the man she hated most meant she now wanted to kill the one she loved the most.

This had to be punishment from the Old Gods, for the Seven hadn’t nearly such a sense of humour.

 

*

 

 

Rhaegar XXII

 

Robert Baratheon was an idiot, but he was not evil-minded. His interrogation revealed his ignorance of most matters regarding the Great Plot. He had not known about Elia or the Starks, and now freely admitted his part in the Plot: he wanted Lyanna Stark, so that he might repay her for the humiliation she had set upon him.

Rhaegar had had no hesitation in ordering the execution of Tywin Lannister, but Robert posed a dilemma: he was kin, after all. Was he more unwitting pawn than conspirator?

He had snatched Lyanna, it was true, but had been manipulated into it. He was dissolute, vain and quick to rage. He was a poor excuse for a man, but he had a peculiar honour. He had to be punished and an example had to be made, but was death actually proper justice? It was a waste of a strong warrior, and that could not be right.

Rhaegar eventually settled upon his solution and dressed in his finest to bring down the sentence in front of a large audience crammed into the Great Hall. The Iron Throne was cold and the blades dug into his skin even through his clothes.

Lyanna hovered behind him, keeping rather to the shadows. He had noticed the change in attitude towards her since the executions and he felt the urge to scold the bloody lot of them.

Robert Baratheon was brought before him, a shadow of his former self. The Black Cells were not good for a man, and he was chained at both hands and feet. Robert fell to his knees in supplication without even needing to be prodded by his guards.

Rhaegar gave him no space to speak: ‘Cousin, you will take the black and join the Night’s Watch. You will relinquish your House, your freedom. You will hold the wall and protect the realms of men. You will take no wife, hold no lands, father no children.’

Robert’s shoulders, already set in defeat, collapsed further. Rhaegar had no doubt Robert would find a way to indulge himself in women and drink at the Wall, but there he would go and there he would stay. The gathered courtiers began to talk amongst themselves but Rhaegar silenced them with no more than a glare before he continued.

‘You will be pledged to the Night’s Watch until the day you die. If you object now, if you try to leave in the future, you will be executed for your crimes against your King.’ Rhaegar stepped away from the Iron Throne to bear down upon Baratheon. ‘It is by our mercy and our understanding of your situation that we allow you to live. You attacked our beloved wife, Robert. We do not forgive this, but we choose to make you useful to more than the crows and the worms. You will take the black and serve well, or I will take your head myself. Do you accept these terms?’

Robert took a breath. ‘I do, Your Grace. I am grateful for your mercy.’

‘You will leave immediately-’

‘What about Renly? He’s only a boy-’

Rhaegar startled at Robert’s interruption. How did he so dare? ‘Renly will remain here, under our care. When he is grown, he may prove worthy of a white cloak.’

Rhaegar’s meaning was clear: Robert would father no sons. Renly would be a hostage, however well cared for, and would father no sons.

The once-Great House Baratheon was now in the uninspiring stewardship of young Stannis.

‘Lord Stannis Baratheon is to marry the lady Selyse Florent. I know the Queen will miss her dear friend, but it is all ordered for the best.’

The punchline: House Baratheon was being given to the Queen’s best friend. Robert could not have created the end of his house better if he’d intended it.

 

*

 

Robert Baratheon was given enough time to bid farewell to his brothers, but was still out of King’s Landing within an hour. No other person came to bid him farewell. His guard was a young Night’s Watchman called Yoren, who was also given letters for Ned Stark from both King and Queen.

‘I shall deliver them to no other hand, Your Grace,’ he swore solemnly to King Rhaegar.

‘Thank you. Keep me informed of the journey. Especially any events during your stop at Winterfell.’

‘Aye, Your Grace.’

‘Safe travels. And may the Seven Gods be with you all at the Wall.’

Word came several moons later: Robert was the newest sworn brother of the Night’s Watch.

Ned Stark had refused to see his old friend when the group paused at Winterfell, and he wrote to his sister:

_‘It is not in me to forgive. I could perhaps forgive his ambition, could even forgive the death of Brandon. But not of Ashara and the child, or of the Princess. I cannot forgive him snatching you. Whether he knew what part he took in this plot or not, he knew the difference between right and wrong. Jon Arryn taught us that, if nothing else. My almost-brother is no more friend to me. It makes me sick to think of it, but honour dictates it. I hope peace will now settle on these Seven Kingdoms so that our sons may grow in the sunshine of a long summer. Your devoted brother, Ned.’_

Lyanna read the letter several times before passing it to her husband.

Rhaegar did not answer directly and felt her impatience bubble up as she waited for his answer. ‘It is as it should be.’


	48. A Champion Remade

Arthur V  


 

Arthur Dayne came back to himself almost three moons after he took down the Blighted Knight. The worst of his physical injuries had taken time to heal of course, but for the most part, it was the extent of his emotional and mental trauma that caused the delay.

There was no one single moment in which Arthur was suddenly “back” but a gradual improvement until one day he woke up in the morning and got himself out of bed and ready for his day as a member of the Kingsguard.

He got as far as ablutions and dressing himself before he remembered what had happened some weeks before. On that morning, Selyse Florent found him on the floor, dirtying his new white cloak.

The next morning, he made it as far as eating a little breakfast and by the end of the week he was able to accept his first visitor who was not a Maester or Selyse. He sat in a chair by the window and wrapped his cloak around himself as it if was a Valyrian steel shield rather than linen.

When his visitor came in, he rose to his feet and bowed. ‘Your Grace!’

The Queen remained in the doorway a moment, then rushed to embrace him warmly. ‘Oh, Arthur! It is so _wonderful_ to see you!’

Arthur froze. He had not felt a woman’s touch, excepting Selyse’s nursing, since-

‘Arthur, I am so sorry. I am so, so, sorry.’

Queen Lyanna must have realised why he had stilled, for she stepped away and other than assistance to sit, did not touch him again.

Settled into his chair, he realised he needed to say something. ‘You look very well, Your Grace.’

‘Thank you, Arthur. So you do.’

He rolled his eyes, which was an impertinence he would not have allowed himself before. Lyanna smiled gently in response.

‘I do mean it,’ she said. ‘We have been so worried about you. But now you have a little colour in your cheeks again and…’

‘Thank you, Your Grace.’

‘It is just us, Arthur. Lyanna will do. I don’t deserve anything more from you.’

‘Your Grace?’

‘This is all my fault. I know that. The idea was mine. I’m sorry.’

Arthur tried to ignore the tears in her eyes, but could not. He reached out to pat her hand. ‘There were three of us who made it happen. You… Lyanna, you don’t really look well. I lied.’

Now Lyanna rolled her eyes. ‘It’s all been rather… too much. I feel like I’ve lived through a hundred years in only a few months.’

She briefly filled him in on all that had happened. He raised an eyebrow to hear that she had executed Tywin Lannister, but his only real thought was that she ought not to have taken the job from him.

‘I would’ve… I wish I could have seen it.’

‘So do I… really I do. We could not let him live too long. There was too much risk of him finding a way to escape.’

‘I understand but I cannot like it. Did he show any fear?’

‘I don’t think he knew the meaning of the word.’

‘I am glad it was you.’

‘That makes only two of us. Well, I think Rhaegar was glad to avoid the task himself but I don’t think he likes the way people look at me now. I am no less myself, no less a woman for it. Killing is killing, no matter who does it. I am no more or less responsible whether I swung the sword or stood and watched. At least I took responsibility for my failing-’

‘It was not your failing alone. It was Tywin Lannister who caused it all and Tywin Lannister paid with his life. Which is not enough, but I suppose the Stranger has him now.’

Lyanna picked up on an edge in his words. ‘You do not believe?’

‘No.’

‘You used to.’

‘That was before I saw Gregor Clegane cut the unborn child out of a woman and _laugh_.’

Lyanna shuddered. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Stop saying that.’

‘Sorry-’

‘We are all damned. We were damned before. I stood by for years and allowed Aerys to destroy his wife and children and the realm. I… broke my vow.’

‘You did?’

‘Elia and I were married on the road. I did not mean to!’ Tears rolled down his face. ‘Rhaegar offered to release me from my vow and I said no. And I meant it then. But travelling with E- travelling with her as she was released from King’s Landing. Oh, I wish you could have seen it!’

‘I did, briefly. How she smiled.’

‘The closer she was to Dorne, the brighter the smile. And she came to me and… it was not an officiated ceremony, you understand. No septon for us but… we swore ourselves to each other. Even though I was to return here, she swore… she _swore_ … and hours later, Gregor Clegane took her from me forever.’

‘Do you… want to speak of it? You need not. Ser Carolan told Rhaegar.’

‘I hardly remember it, in truth. I remember my grief and my fury. It is only when I sleep and the nightmares haunt me that I recall… I suppose it is a sort of mercy that the details elude me.’

‘I remember every second of it as it happened to me,’ Lyanna told him. ‘And I know the nightmares. It is not easier or harder, just dissimilar. Maester Luwin has come to King’s Landing - I liked him so much when Aegon was born - and he says it will take time… but I cannot endure much more of it.’

‘I tried to leave the room two days ago,’ Arthur admitted. ‘I got as far as putting my hand on the doorknob and started sweating so profusely I couldn’t bear to show myself.’

‘This is the furthest from my chambers that I’ve come for… a long time.’ She spoke not to compete but to commiserate. ‘Perhaps you could visit with me tomorrow?’

‘I can try but…’ Arthur felt his heart race at the thought of it.

‘If not, I will come to you. Every day if you would like. I will bring Aegon to see you. He does ask for “Affa" a lot. And you must- oh, you must meet Jon!’

‘Selyse told me about him.’

‘He is a fine, fine boy. Where Aegon is all Targaryen in his looks, little Jon is a Stark. Except for his eyes, which cannot be mistaken for anything but those of a dragon.’

Arthur leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. ‘Would you mind… talking about him for a while? And Aegon? I should like to hear.’

Lyanna nodded and began to tell her stories. They had recognised in each other a new kindred spirit, born from brutal suffering and loss. Arthur let her voice wash over him and was, for the first time, almost glad to be awake.

 

*

 

True to his word, Arthur tried to visit with the Queen the next day. He got as far as the stairwell before his legs collapsed beneath him as though made of nothing more than water.

It took almost a whole moon, but he reached the Queen’s apartment at last, ignoring the curious stares of servants as they passed by. Selyse hovered behind him somewhere, ready to help him return to his own chamber.

He raised his hand and knocked on the door. It swung open almost immediately. Prince Aegon stood there, staring up at Arthur with wide purple eyes.

‘Affa!’ The Prince attached himself to Arthur’s leg and would not be moved.

Lyanna was by the window, cradling sleeping Prince Jon. ‘Come in, Arthur, Selyse. You are most, most welcome. Aegon, sweet, do let go of Ser Arthur.’

They spent a pleasant-enough afternoon, leaving much unspoken and unsaid.

‘Is the King well?’ Arthur ventured at last, no longer content to ignore the total lack of Rhaegar in person or as a subject of conversation.

Lyanna’s face twisted into an entire scowl. ‘He is busy.’

‘Busy?’

‘With his prophecies.’

‘Ah.’

‘Since Jon was born, he is convinced this precious boy is the Prince That Was Promised and… he is either shut away with scrolls and parchments or he is in the nursery, staring at Jon.’

‘Ah.’ Arthur took a few deep breaths, then rose a little gingerly to his feet. ‘I must go then, Your Grace. Thank you for… very many things.’

‘My dearest thanks and affections in return, dear Arthur.’

Lyanna reached a hand out just enough to let him decide whether he could bear it. He did, bringing her hand to his lips for a moment.

He left the ladies then, for it was time to be a champion again.

 

*

 

King Rhaegar’s solar was secluded and quiet, so Arthur knew that the King would hear him coming up the stairs. Yet, when he knocked there was no immediate answer. He tried again. Nothing.

There were probably only a handful of people who would dare open that particular door without being explicitly invited to do so. Arthur was one of that handful, and pushed it open.

The air was thick, stale and stank of candlewax and sweat. The windows were shut tight. There were at least one hundred books and scrolls stacked and piled up around the room.

Rhaegar himself was hunched over the desk, hair lank and eyes squinting at the parchment in front of him.

‘Your Grace!’

Rhaegar did not respond immediately.

‘Rhaegar!’

Rhaegar did now turn to look at Arthur. He did at least startle at the sight of his friend up and about. His eyes were red and exhausted, his skin sallow and sunken around his cheeks.

‘When did you last eat? Or sleep? Seven hells, Rhaegar!’ Arthur entered the solar fully and let the door swing shut behind him.

He cracked a window open and the refreshing breeze stirred some of the scrolls.

‘Don’t do that!’ Rhaegar hissed. ‘There is a plan here.’

‘Plan?’ Arthur quirked an eyebrow, feeling more himself than he had for weeks. ‘I don’t see a plan here so much as I see barely-controlled madness.’

That was the wrong word to use with Rhaegar.

‘I am not mad!’

‘Convincing.’

‘I am not! I am… Jon is the Prince! All the omens! Arthur, he is here at last! Twas not me but my son! My beloved Jaehaerys!’

‘Jon, Rhaegar. His name is Jon.’

‘For show, Arthur. Now, hand me that scroll over there. The one with the Citadel seal.’

Arthur did not move. ‘Your Grace, you are my closest, dearest friend. So please understand how difficult it is for me to say that you are acting like an absolute bastard.’

Rhaegar’s eyes narrowed to slits, his fists balled and he leapt up from his chair. The chair fell back behind him onto a scatter of books. ‘You overstep, _friend_.’

‘I swore an Oath, _Your Grace_. I have broken it many times through my weakness and fear but I shall not do so now. Your family needs you. All of it. Your wife is-’

‘You will not speak to me of Lyanna!’

‘Your wife,’ Arthur pressed, ‘is wilting under grief and guilt and the trauma of her experiences as a prisoner. Had you even noticed?’

‘She just needs time-’

‘She needs to feel that she has not ruined everything! Gods, Rhaegar! She lost her brother and her friends and… she feels you have abandoned her.’

‘She said that?’

‘She would never be so disloyal but she does not need to say it. Now, I will be very clear and very blunt. Life is short and love is no insurance against the worst happening. By all means, remain here in your solar and become your father. By all means, ignore your wife and your sons - both of them - and lose yourself in mysticism and old Valyrian nonsense. Do not make the mistake of thinking that because I failed _you_ against your father, that I will make the same mistake again.’

‘What will you do?’ Rhaegar seethed, rolling back and forth on the balls of his feet. ‘Kill me?’

‘No, of course not, Your Grace. I will… I am your family’s champion. I will protect them, even from _you_. Even if you are not violent as your father was, your neglect is as powerful a weapon. I will… I will take them away from your madness. Yet, it is not too late for you. All you need is to get out of this room and regain your equilibrium. And perhaps take a bath. How long have you been up here?’

Rhaegar blinked and appeared to come back to himself a little. ‘I… don’t know.’

‘You really can’t do without me, can you?’

Rhaegar smiled, just barely. ‘Apparently not.’

‘You are not mad yet, Rhaegar. Obsessed perhaps, but not mad.’

‘This could… this could save us, Arthur. From whatever is coming.’

‘Jon is only a few moons old. There is _nothing_ he can do for years yet. You have time. And let the maesters at the Citadel do the work for you. It’s what they’re there for. You have a family and a realm to care for in the meantime.’

Rhaegar blinked several times. Had these realities not occurred to him?

‘Come,’ Arthur broke protocol again by tugging on Rhaegar’s sleeve. ‘You really do need to bathe most urgently.’

Rhaegar, to Arthur's relief and surprise, followed his directions.

 

*

 

Arthur attended dinner with the royal family and their invited guests that evening for the first time since… before. He hardly wanted to, but he needed to ensure that the King also made it that far.

The Queen’s reaction to seeing her husband enter the room and take his place at the Head of the Table was one thing; seeing their guests (various King’s Landing luminaries) respond similarly said a good deal about the King since the birth of his second son.

How close had Rhaegar come to losing everything he’d worked for since his father’s death? Arthur was at least gladdened to discover that between Queen Lyanna, Connington and the intelligent people Rhaegar had appointed to his various public works schemes, the damage caused by his seclusion had been minimal.

‘The problem,’ one of the engineers said, ‘Is helping residents understand that the sewerage will be better. They don’t see that proper, enclosed sewers are better for them than the current “shit in the streets” provision.’

‘We’re doing our best to explain,’ added another. ‘But old habits die hard.’

‘What are you doing about it?’ Rhaegar asked.

‘Well, we’re trying to educate people but… it’s slow going when you have to have the same conversation with every household separately.’

‘Hold a neighbourhood meeting,’ Rhaegar suggested.

‘We tried. They didn’t attend.’

‘Do it again. Let them know that I will be there.’

The engineers exchanged a curious glance between them but nodded their assent.

The dinner continued. Lyanna was trying not to stare too openly at her husband, but Arthur noticed. At the conclusion of the meal, the King moved to escort her away. She blushed a little and glanced at Arthur with a faint, grateful smile.

A sense of enormous relief washed over him as he felt useful for the first time since… _before_. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Life would now always be split between _before_ and since, but at least now he felt that he might yet still be useful.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, everything seems to be slowly returning to whatever passes for 'normal' at the Red Keep.
> 
> Gosh, the word 'seems' is awfully small and yet awfully important...
> 
> As always, thank you for your comments and thoughts on previous chapters, and for those to come!


	49. Honesty is the Least Bad Policy

Rhaegar XXIII

 

It was like being released from a fog. How long had he been trapped inside? When had he last felt the warmth of Lyanna’s arm tucked with his?

They walked swiftly from the public part of the Keep to the private with neither party choosing to speak. Once in the relative solitude of their rooms he glanced around, viewing the familiar as if he had returned from many months away from it. The old was made new again.

Lyanna stood in the centre of the room with her arms folded, staring at him as if _she_ had not seen _him_ for many months.

He startled: perhaps she had not. He regarded her in return and saw the darkness under her eyes; a thinness in her face that seemed new and unusual for a new mother; a hardness in her mouth and a nervous tension in her muscles.

‘Lyanna-’

‘I cannot account for your presence here with me or your reformed attitude…’ she spoke without judgement or bitterness but also without any positive emotion ‘…I am sure it is not for my benefit.’

‘Arthur came to see me,’ Rhaegar admitted, determined there be no distance between them now. ‘He… helped me see… sense.’

Her eyebrows rose at that. ‘Dear Arthur. He is… he’s awfully fragile, you know.’

‘Yes, I know.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I mean, I know _now_.’

‘Had you any thought for any of us? While you were on your single-minded crusade for the truth, did you care about any of us? Did you think of Aegon? Or Viserys, who hardly knows whether the grown folk in his life are coming or going? Or Daenerys in her nursery? Did you think of Jon in any way except how he might _serve you_?’

She turned on her heels, skirts swishing, and stalked over to the window. ‘Did you think of me?’

‘Of course I-’ Rhaegar did not continue. It did not feel honest. ‘I… everything I do is for you. For all of you! I cannot bear the thought of some great terror falling upon us and my being unable to fight it. I am the King of the Seven Kingdoms, tasked with protecting the realm! All the evidence proves I am not the Prince That Was Promised so I must live with the knowledge that I will _fail_ at my task. My solemn, sacred duty.’

Lyanna tapped her hand against the window shutter. ‘Evidence? Evidence, Rhaegar? Old wives’ tales and scraps of parchment written by mad old fools do not constitute _evidence_.’

‘Do not.’ He felt his anger rise, the dormant dragon unfurling itself within. ‘Do not speak of what you do not understand!’

‘Of course I do! I learnt High Valyrian for you! I have read scores of documents to assist you, or did you forget? I do not dismiss the prophecy out of hand but you cannot define our lives by it!’

The hidden dragon roared. ‘That is rich coming from one who sets store with the Old Gods! What would you know, woman?’

Rhaegar knew immediately that his response had not been a wise one.

 

*

 

Lyanna XXIII

 

Lyanna had been more patient and understanding about his obsession with prophetic words and magic than anyone who knew her young Winterfell self could have ever believed.

Whether it was the endurance of love or the apathy of the weary, she was not sure and, gazing at her husband now, the reason mattered not a bit.

Any patience was outweighed by love for him and for their family. She opened her mouth to speak, knowing as she did that she would find it impossible to rein herself in once she started:

‘Well you see, that’s the thing about prophecies, Rhaegar. Whatever forces are driving our world will always make sure that the prophecy _can_ come true, but they don’t make it happen. You could’ve had your three-headed dragon with Viserys and Daenerys, but there were too many years between you. You have Jon, who might well fit all the omens, or he might not. You have two children now and you may yet have more, but nobody knows… and none of it matters now because the threat this promised prince is to defeat is not here yet! Is an infant child to stand up against the supposed forces of darkness? By the gods Old and New, Rhaegar, will you refuse to live a life in favour of wasting away for a prophecy?’

She slumped onto the edge of the bed, her jewelled belt digging into her hips through her thick dress. ‘The question I feel you must ask is simple: do you care more for your prophecy or your family, as we are now? If the latter, then I am glad to have you back with us. If the former, I suggest you leave for the Citadel in the morning to persuade them of the need to investigate what they would consider dirty magic, and the rest of us will get along far easier without you.’

The meaning was left to hang in the air between them. She had said her piece and the outcome was not in her gift. As much as Lyanna knew Rhaegar loved her, she was not at all certain of the choice he would make.

Rhaegar paced up and down, up and down, reminiscent somehow of their very earliest days when the marriage was the choice of neither and they were strangers to each other in every single way that mattered.

They were not strangers now, in any sense, but they were distant from each other.

‘I should…’ Rhaegar cleared his throat. ‘I should… it is as Arthur says, I should leave the scholarly work to others.’

‘Well, if _Arthur said it_ , it must be so-’

‘I am trying my best!’

‘And I am teasing you!’

‘Hardly appropriate, woman.’

‘Call me _woman_ one more time, I dare you!’

‘What? What will you do?’

‘I haven’t decided yet.’

‘Then I shall defer my fear also.’ He stepped closer, near enough for her to feel the heat radiating from him.

‘We have been through a great deal lately. I suppose we should be glad to still live, however broken we might be.’

Rhaegar leaned down to rest his head on hers and his hands on her shoulders. ‘Since my father died…’

She shuddered. ‘Don’t speak of him. Not in here.’

‘Since Mother and… I feel I have hardly paused at all.’

‘You do look wretched.’

‘Thank you.’

‘We should take a holiday.’

He stirred. ‘What?’

‘Or if you must work, we will make a royal progress. Visit your realm. Get out of this bloody city.’

‘And away from my books?’

‘A useful coincidence.’

‘I will consult with Jon in the morning. In the meantime, it is late.’

‘It isn’t that late.’

‘It feels late.’

‘Then we will sleep.’

‘One thing first.’

‘Yes, Rhaegar?’

‘A visit to the nursery. I should like to see… everyone.’

‘As you wish, Your Grace.’

 

*

 

Jon Connington, with the help of assistants and a rookery full of ravens, was able to plan a Royal Progress in a few short days. In that time, the Grand Maester of the Citadel replied to King Rhaegar’s help regarding the prophecy, stating in no uncertain terms that he would have nothing to do with the esoteric nonsense of magic and omens.

The reply came while the King was in the Small Council chamber with his wife and Hand, preparing the route for his great Progress.

‘I will visit him and put him right,’ Rhaegar said, with all the confidence of someone who had never really been told “no” in his entire life.

‘They are absolute in their scepticism, Your Grace,’ Jon replied, glancing at Lyanna for support.

It warmed her heart to see how the Hand had transformed in his attitude towards her since his initial suspicion and dislike. If their abduction had done any good whatsoever, it was surely that.

‘Ah Jon,’ she replied lightly. ‘Let him have his wish. The Grand Maester may find it more difficult to say “no” in person. Those purple eyes have magic of their own.’

‘We must… we _should_ visit Dorne first.’ Rhaegar’s subject-change was unexpected but both Lyanna and Connington moved with him.

‘Will we be welcome?’ Lyanna asked.

‘I do not know. That is why we must go. I will not leave this uncertain. The Prince… if nothing else, I must apologise in person for the stream of insults Elia was required to endure from my father. I was able to undo much of the damage once I became King but… I am not at all sure how I am seen in Dorne.’

‘If you travel to Dorne,’ Jon began nervously, ‘And you wish to also visit Oldtown and Winterfell, then I am afraid you will be gone from King’s Landing far longer than originally anticipated.’

Rhaegar sighed and Lyanna felt sick as she knew what was coming and the North slipped out of her grasp.

‘Winterfell can wait.’ He turned to her. ‘I am sorry.’

‘I know you are. That doesn’t change your decision or the effect it has on me.’

‘By all means, you could travel north while I remain in Oldtown.’

‘We will be separated for at least six moons.’

‘I know. Perhaps…’ Rhaegar cleared his throat and would not look her in the eye. ‘Perhaps it is for the best.’

She felt cold fury rise up from the deepest part of her soul. Her hands clenched at her sides and she had to take several deep breaths just to stop herself clawing his eyes out.

‘Very well, Your Grace. I understand. And what of your siblings? They are young and in need of familial love and affection.’

‘Whatever you feel is best.’

‘You’re still not entirely here, are you?’ she asked.

He blinked. ‘Pardon?’

‘Your mind is still with your fucking prophecy.’

‘Lyanna-’

‘The man I love would never speak so dismissively of his fellow dragons. I will take them both with me to the north. I will show them Winterfell and Ned and his family and I will show them what _family_ can be.’

With that said, Lyanna turned on her heels and stalked out of the room.

 

*

 

For once, Queen Lyanna made no argument about stuffing herself into a wheelhouse. She had four children to watch over, and it was hardly fair to insist Selyse take full responsibility for them while they were shut in the wheelhouse. She did, however, demand that Vhagar be brought along so that he too might have a chance to go home to the cold north.

The King took to his horse and led the Progress out of the city. At least a half dozen other noble families sent representatives with the King’s party, to curry favour and prove their loyalty.

Jon Connington waved them off, and Lyanna could hardly miss the concerned frown upon his face. Whether it was for Rhaegar’s sanity or for his own ability to run the kingdom while the King was absent, she knew not.

Ser Arthur Dayne rode just behind the King, and it did the small folk good to see him apparently healed and strong again, his bright white cloak swirling in the breeze. Riding beside him, Ser Jaime Lannister received a cooler reception, his name and leonine appearance causing many to distrust him, no matter how many times the King had mentioned how much he appreciated his knight’s service.

The progress took itself south, stopping at several manors and estates on the way to Dorne. The climate became warmer and warmer as they passed through the southernmost parts of the Kingdom and finally, the earth itself became red and dry and they arrived in Dorne.

Lyanna loved the warmth, which reminded her of the earlier, simpler days of her marriage when Summerhall had been their retreat and escape from the terrors of Aerys’ court. She loved how beautiful everything in Dorne was.

She was less fond of constant travel with a set of children who did not take kindly to being cooped up for long stretches of time, but it would not do to complain so she fixed her smile and spent her time looking for ways to keep the little dragons entertained.

At last, they arrived at the Water Gardens, but the Prince of Dorne was not there to greet them.

‘I apologise, Your Grace,’ his Major-domo told King Rhaegar. ‘Prince Doran was unexpectedly delayed. I am to arrange for your comfort and ease in the meantime.’

‘Of course,’ Rhaegar replied smoothly, letting the insult slide away. ‘We appreciate His Grace’s kind hospitality.’

The King’s party settled in at the luxurious, serene palace. The children loved it, of course, and rushed to frolic in the glistening pools.

After seeing the party safely settled, Arthur Dayne excused himself almost immediately to return home to Starfall for the first time since Ashara died.

Lyanna saw him off with a hug. ‘Please Arthur… tell your family how terribly sorry I am. She was the finest goodsister I could ever have wished for.’

Arthur blinked a couple of stray tears away. ‘Of course, Your- Lyanna.’

She watched him ride away, his seat not quite as assured as usual.

‘He will be all right, Your Grace.’

She turned. Ser Barristan Selmy stood behind, keeping watch.

‘I hope so, Ser Barristan. He… I do not know if I could cope with losing so much.’

Ser Barristan frowned, confused. ‘But Your Grace… you did, and you have.’

She had not considered it that way. ‘I think that remains to be seen.’

‘I have known a number of Starks in my time, Your Grace. I have yet to meet one who has more courage and grit than you.’

‘Thank you, Ser.’ She shook out her skirts. ‘Now… I suppose we should find the children before they do something terrible.’

‘They are with Lady Selyse and Lord Stannis. They will be safe and well.’

‘Ah.’ Lyanna began to walk, but did not rush. Ser Barristan kept up easily. ‘Those two really ought to marry soon… I have kept her at my side for too long.’

‘As you wish, Your Grace.’

‘Where do you suppose the Prince of Dorne is, Ser Barristan?’

‘I am a soldier, not a politician, Your Grace. I would assume he is wherever he is most needed.’

‘What a diplomatic answer from someone who is not a politician.’

The older two Targaryen children were playing hide and seek in the gardens, under the sternly watchful gaze of Stannis Baratheon while Selyse watched the infants. The Tyrell lady, and her nearly-newborn daughter Margaery, sat with Selyse under a parasol while her sons joined Viserys and Aegon.

‘Viserys is very patient with the younger children, Your Grace,’ Lady Alerie smiled sweetly.

Lyanna knelt and made several silly faces at Daenerys to make her laugh, then did the same for Jon, who smiled up at his mother. Eventually, she replied. ‘Yes, he is.’

‘He reminds me of his dear, departed mother. Thoughtful and kind. It’s all in the eyes.’

Lyanna did not know Alerie Hightower well, but for the affection she had for Ser Gerold, she would extend every courtesy she could manage. ‘Are you well, Lady Alerie? I cannot imagine all this travel with such a young child can be easy.’

Alerie’s smile did not waver even for a second. ‘All perfectly fine, Your Grace.’

Lyanna knew then that she was lying. There was no way anyone sane would consider the relentless pace of their travel and the searing heat of Dorne as “perfectly fine”. Would the politicking and intrigues ever cease?

‘Ser Barristan, where did my husband take himself?’

‘He was provided with a room in which to deal with correspondence, Your Grace.’

‘Then I shall join him shortly…’

‘This is why people don’t like you.’

Alerie’s face transformed into instant horror as she realised she had spoken aloud. She went very pale, then very red, and her mouth formed a slight “o”.

‘Oh, forgive me, Your Grace, do. I was… I believe the heat has affected me-’

‘Affected you into actually speaking sincerely?’ Lyanna’s own face hardened into a slight frown as she battled two inner voices: one convinced Alerie spoke the truth and one that railed against the insult. Was it an insult to be truthful?

‘Lady Alerie,’ She tried again. ‘I am not in the habit of retribution against people who speak their minds. I would ask that you explain your meaning.’

Alerie shifted the baby in the arms slightly and, having been given permission, let her true feelings flow: ‘Why can you not be a proper Queen? Why must you insist on taking part in those activities best left to the men? You ought to make the children your concern, not matters of state! Really, it was bad enough when you used to ride around on that great beast of yours! But then, to _execute_ a man? Tis too much! And now, you are inserting yourself into the King’s work! You are a _woman_ , Lyanna Stark and it’s far past time you acted like it!’

Lyanna closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. Jon’s little fingers clutched at her thumb, rooting her to the world even as she thought she might float away in a tempest of thoughts. Alerie Tyrell didn’t even know the _half_ of it.

‘Lady Alerie, I thank you for speaking plainly, truly I do. We may fundamentally disagree on the role of women, but I respect you hugely. We may make women differently in the North, or it may simply be me. I do not know. But I do know that I am a support to my husband, the King, by relieving him of some of his burden, by acting as an alternative point of view. As for executing Tywin Lannister, I am quite taken aback that anyone could see anything but natural justice. He was responsible for the deaths of people I loved, of my kidnap and imprisonment. Did you know my son here was born in a dank, flooded dungeon? The Prince of Summerhall, and he might have died simply from that. But even beyond that, Tywin Lannister conspired to bring ruination to this realm, which I love with all my heart. Why should I not swing the sword? I appreciate you speaking plainly but understand that I do not apologise for my actions, or for myself.’

‘As you say, Your Grace.’

Lyanna bent to press a kiss to Jon’s forehead. ‘I was never meant to be Queen. You can blame Aerys for it, if you feel there is blame to be apportioned. But I shall not set myself aside to fit a King’s Landing opinion of womanhood. Now, I must go to Rhaegar because if I don’t make sure he takes some rest, he will not do it.’

Selyse, who had remained silent throughout this exchange, send Lyanna a smile of reassurance. ‘I shall take Jon and Dany for their nap shortly, Your Grace.’

‘Thank you, my dear Selyse.’

Lyanna swept away then, giving Ser Barristan the order to stay with the ladies and children and watch over them. Instead of going to Rhaegar directly, she stopped in her temporary chamber and wept brief, bitter tears. She would never fit in with the court, she already knew, but to discover they truly detested her was something else entirely.

Then, she pulled herself together, washed her face, set her shoulders and went about her business.

If she couldn’t please these people, then she would please herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for all the comments so far, and for your patience while I fit chapters into the chaos of the rest of life.
> 
> The Prince of Dorne will be arriving shortly............


	50. Dinner with Family

Rhaegar VIV

 

The King waited three days and nights for the Prince of Dorne. He was assured that he was unavoidably detained, but it had all the hallmarks of a snub. Still, there was no benefit to being offended, and Rhaegar could hardly blame his old friend if he was playing politics, so he contented himself with enjoying the Water Gardens and some time with his family.

When had Viserys grown so serious? When had Aegon taken to running everywhere instead of toddling? Since when did Lyanna watch every interaction between him and the children with a narrow-eyed frown?

Prince Doran arrived with Oberyn Martell in tow. The Red Viper had never had much love for the Silver Prince as his good-brother and of all the people in the Seven Kingdoms, was the least likely to consider Rhaegar’s title before attacking.

They arrived - clearly by design - just as the evening meal was beginning, so Rhaegar had no opportunity to meet with Doran beforehand.

The Water Gardens were far less formal than the court at the Red Keep, and the feast was arranged at round tables without too much opportunity for precedence to make itself known.

Doran and Oberyn took their places at the table with the King and Queen.

Politics still made themselves known at the feast: the Tyrells, long-time adversaries of the Martell clan, were kept quite distant and although Lord Mace kept looking over at them, forehead puckered and sweaty, Lady Alerie kept her gaze fixed upon her plate.

The meal began quietly, none at the King’s table wanting to be the first to speak. Still, such a duty fell to the host.

Prince Doran began with an apology: ‘My apologies for not being here when you arrived, Your Grace. I was unavoidably detained at Sunspear.’

‘I understand, of course. I thank you for your generous hospitality in the meantime. There is much I must say-’

Doran waved his fork. ‘No, _brother_. You need not.’

Oberyn's eyes did not leave Rhaegar’s face even for a moment. Every so often, he reached down to his waist to touch a jewelled dagger there kept, as if to remind himself that it was there should he need it.

Rhaegar hoped he would not. Beside him, Lyanna was silent, downcast and reserved in a way quite out of character. He could not think of it in the moment, so he turned all his attentions to Doran.

Prince Doran was not a physically imposing man, but he had a keen, sharp way about him. Even his burnished orange robes caught the light in a way that set Rhaegar’s nerves on edge.

Doran continued: ‘The crimes against Elia were not of your making.’

‘Although you hardly moved to prevent them,’ Oberyn added.

Rhaegar fixed him with a steady gaze. It would not do for Oberyn Martell to openly defy the King of the Seven Kingdoms without some response. ‘Oberyn, you know as well as I do, that I did what I could to ensure her safety.’

‘If that were true, _Your Grace_ , you would not have married her in the first place.’

Purple eyes narrowed against the Martell black. ‘It was a choice she made freely, Oberyn. Had I the gift of foresight then, things might indeed be different.’

‘And yet you-’

‘Oberyn, do be quiet.’ Doran spoke softly but his power was undeniable. ‘Come, brother Rhaegar. There is much of which we must speak.’

‘Elia will always hold an honoured place in my heart,’ Rhaegar said.

‘How gallant you are,’ Oberyn sneered, ‘to speak pretty words of one wife while the other sits beside you.’

Lyanna looked up blinking, as if she had not heard. ‘I loved Elia as a sister. I would not have seen her harmed for all the world. It is not His Grace who should apologise, but I. The scheme that put her in such danger was _mine_.’

‘Nay,’ Rhaegar cut in, fearful for Lyanna now, far more than for himself. ‘It was not.’

Lyanna scowled. Doran regarded them both. Oberyn smirked.

‘Dear Lyanna,’ he began, syrupy words delivered in a way that made Rhaegar want to reach for Oberyn’s dagger and stab him through the neck with it. ‘The crime was hardly yours. And we know of course that the remedy was taken at your hand. I cannot speak for Dorne as my brother does, but if I could not take Tywin Lannister’s head myself… I thank you, dear lady.’

Lyanna glanced at Rhaegar, clearly unsure how to respond at first. ‘She who passes the sentence should swing the sword. He was the true blight of the Seven Kingdoms and he injured me and my family - including Elia - most grievously… scorned though I may be, I cannot find it in myself to regret that. I do, and shall for the rest of my life, bitterly regret what happened to Elia, and to Ashara and Brandon, and everyone taken by the Blighted Knight.’

‘Well said, Your Grace,’ Doran raised his cup to her and she nodded, now blushing a little.

Rhaegar wanted to be gone from Dorne _tomorrow_. It would not do, of course…

‘What are your plans, Your Grace?’ Doran asked. ‘Your note said something about visiting the Citadel.’

‘Yes.’

‘Still on your prophecy?’ Oberyn asked. ‘How charming.’

Rhaegar’s grip on his cutlery tightened to the point of pain as he tried to remain calm. There was something so _punchable_ about Oberyn, and it was almost certainly that Oberyn wanted to taunt him into doing just that.

‘There are worse things to be than _charming_ , Oberyn,’ he replied at last.

Doran cut in then with a meaningless question to Lyanna about the journey, and those at the table allowed the conversation to move into the territory of the meaningless.

 

*

 

Doran requested the King’s presence in his Solar the next morning. The King objected most strenuously to being _invited_ but strolled down in his own time and decided to open the conversation himself:

‘Are we to speak of Eli-’

Doran waved him away. ‘I do not wish to speak of Elia. What’s done is done.’

‘Then-’

‘Your son Aegon will marry my daughter Arianne.’

‘Doran-’

‘You swore to make my sister Queen and yet, she will never be. I understand the vicissitudes of life in the Red Keep, and I hold no anger towards you personally. My heart is heavy with a grief I must live with to the end of my days. We were promised that the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms would be a Martell, and so it shall be, even if our adored Elia is not she.’

‘I must speak to Lyanna-’

 _‘Rhaegar_ , this is not a negotiation,’ Doran spoke as if to a small child. ‘Your son will marry my daughter… or there will be war between us, and I would not have that. You are a dear friend, but that will not stop Dorne rising up if we feel we must.’

Rhaegar remained silent. Was he really able to give away his son’s future without a fight? What kind of influence would House Martell demand once Arianne was installed as Queen in the Red Keep? He did not _know_ Arianne; did not know the adult woman she would grow into.

It would hardly matter to Rhaegar himself, for he would be dead before Arianne was Queen, but he would ever have worries beyond the personal.

It would not come to pass for many years, surely. By then, other and greater concerns might- if a new Long Night was coming, it would hardly matter at all.

‘I _will_ consult with Lyanna before I give you my assent,’ Rhaegar told the Prince of Dorne. ‘I am not in the habit of making such decisions without at least speaking to her first. This is not about the realm, this is about my family, you see. My father refused any counsel at all. I shall not make his mistakes. I intend to make my own.’

Doran smiled at that and Rhaegar knew he had bought himself some time. ‘You must act as you will. Now, how does your wife like Dorne?’

‘Well enough.’

‘That is the answer of a man who does not know the real answer. Have you neglected your Stark bride in favour of politics? You ought not; Elia spoke so fondly of her whenever she wrote to me.’

Tension that Rhaegar hadn’t realised he felt, and had for days, left him then. War with Dorne was unlikely, at least for now. All he had to do was give Aegon and his future to Dorne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick, short chapter for you to tide you over until something more substantial! I hope to get back on track soon but the analogue world does have an irritating habit of getting in the way...
> 
> THANK YOU for all the comments and feedback, and gosh - that hit count is quite something!


	51. Telling Tales to a King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that it's taken a while to update but thank you to everyone who is reading!
> 
> Just a bit of a 'filler' right now... if you think 'gosh, she's skipped over a whole bunch of stuff', well you're right. But it might be for a reason... 
> 
> To those of you reading who feel like the real world is giving you/us a beating, i send peace and goodness. When WESTEROS feels like an escape, you know there's something amiss.

Sansa III

 

Sansa wanted to be sick and she wasn’t exactly sure why. Aunt Lyanna had paused in her telling of the story and was looking at her niece strangely.

‘What ails you, Sansa?’

‘I…’ She took a breath. ‘It isn’t like in the songs!’

‘No, it isn’t.’

‘The way you tell it… it sounds terrible!’

‘It was for a while.’ Aunt Lyanna spoke lightly as if nothing mattered and all was well.

‘But… but…’

‘You’re tired, sweetling. We will continue this story tomorrow night, perhaps.’ Aunt Lyanna leaned over and kissed Sansa’s cheek, then Arya’s. ‘Sweet dreams.’

Sansa did not sleep well and when she did, her night was full of bad dreams.

 

*

 

‘You look terrible.’

Sansa did not look up from her porridge. ‘I did not sleep well.’

Prince-Cousin Aegon sat down next to her, his own bowl sloshing with milky porridge. ‘I don’t know how you can eat it with so little milk.’

‘I don’t know how you can eat it with so much.’

Aegon grinned, not at all put out by the sharpness of her tone. ‘You’re much more fun when you’re not trying to be polite.’

Sansa wasn’t sure how to reply to that, so said nothing.

‘We’re off riding today,’ Aegon said.

‘Again?’

‘Robb is taking us to some tumbledown tower. He says it is haunted by the ghosts of long-ago First Men.’

Once more, Sansa could not think of a polite response, so said nothing.

‘Whatever is the matter with you, cousin? I’ve never seen you so silent.’

‘I slept poorly.’

‘Ah. I am sorry.’

‘Are you really betrothed to Arianne Martell?’

Aegon’s grin broadened almost to the width of his face and for a moment, Sansa wanted to smack him. ‘Interesting question. Where did you hear of that?’

‘Aunt Lyanna mentioned something.’

‘Ah, well… now, it’s a bit of a story-’

Little Prince Duncan bounded over. He was wearing someone’s mail and it dragged behind him with a swishing of metal-on-stone. ‘Egg, Egg! Father says I can come with you today!’

‘Are you sure you want that? There’s ghosts-’

‘Yes! I want to see the ghosts!’

‘You must be very brave.’

‘I will be! I’m so excited! Papa says you need to help me with my horse and…’ Sansa blocked Duncan’s excited babble from her tired mind.

‘All right, Dunk. Please excuse me, Sansa. I hope you have a restful day.’

‘Thank you…’

 

*

 

Sansa watched most of the young people of Winterfell ride out, including Arya. She was so tired… and sad… if the King and Queen were not happy, whoever could be?

Her parents were happy… but even Mama was meant to marry Uncle Brandon, before Ashara Dayne and before the Blighted Knight…

If Mama married Brandon Stark, Sansa wouldn’t exist, so she was certain that was as it should be, if nothing else. Or would she still be Sansa Stark, just a little different?

Life was much more complicated than she liked. Sansa liked order and tidiness. She wandered a little, enjoying the quiet that had descended with so many people away from the castle.

She had a thought to do some embroidery but on passing the library, she had a thought to read instead. She might find comfort in old tales, after all, and her father had a very old copy of a book of such stories.

King Rhaegar was in the library, scrolls and parchments spread out across the table before him. He had a quill pen in hand and a streak of ink across the edge of said hand.

‘Come in, Sansa.’

‘I’m sorry to disturb you-’

‘You’re not disturbing me. Come in and sit with me, if you like.’

She did so, but did not dare speak.

The king continued to scribble away on his parchment, his letters small and exact. ‘Lyanna tells me she has been weaving a tale for you and Arya.’

‘Yes, Your- Uncle.’

‘What do you think so far? Dreadfully romantic.’

‘Yes…’

‘You do not sound convinced.’

‘I thought it was terribly romantic at first and then… and then…’

‘Real life got in the way? It has a habit of doing that.’ He put the pen down and focused his searing purple eyes upon her. ‘Lyanna’s tale is only one version, of course. I might tell it very differently.’

‘You would? How could it be different?’

‘I might tell you a tale of an arrogant young prince who fell in love at first sight and didn’t even realise until much later. I could tell you about a young king who neglected his family to chase dreams even though he loved his family more than his own life. A man too caught up in his fears to make the decisions he needed to make.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes indeed. We are none of us perfect, dear Sansa. But! You came in here for a reason and I have interrupted you. I apologise.’

‘I just… I just wanted a book of old tales. It’s silly.’

‘Not at all.’ Uncle Rhaegar pushed his hair out of his eyes. ‘Will you show me? I am always interested in the stories we tell ourselves.’

Blushing furiously at such interest from her magnificent uncle, Sansa retrieved the book and placed it before him.

The King turned the pages carefully, even reverently. ‘This is extraordinary, Sansa. Perhaps we could read it together? You can explain all the Northern features to me? Would you mind?’

‘I would love to!’

An hour later, Aunt Lyanna arrived and found them in lively discussion about Jenny of Oldstones.

‘By the Old Gods, Rhaegar! Have you kept the poor girl trapped listening to you?’

‘Uncle Rhaegar was telling me all about his aunt Jenny! How you knew Jenny of Oldstones?’

‘I only met her twice,’ Lyanna told her. ‘I told you about the first. Strangely enough, we had reached the second time in our bedtime story.’

Sansa could hardly wait for the evening to come.

 

*

 

The Stark sisters almost dragged Aunt Lyanna upstairs at bedtime. Sansa was eager to listen to the next chapter of the story; Arya was also exhausted by her adventure to the Tumbledown Tower with their brothers and cousins.

‘Are you settled?’ Aunt Lyanna asked. ‘Now, where were we? I think I had just reached Summerhall-’

‘No,’ Sansa interrupted. ‘The Water Gardens.’

‘Oh yes. Well, that was quite dull so I decided to travel north to Winterfell early. I bundled Viserys, Daenerys, Aegon and Jon into a wheelhouse, along with dear Selyse. Stannis Baratheon came as a sort of escort, as did a couple of Kingsguard.’

Arya stirred from her near-sleep. ‘Which ones?’

‘Jaime Lannister and Barristan the Bold.’

‘Hurrah!’

‘So, we left Dorne and collected Ser Arthur Dayne from Starfall on the way. The King instructed the three of them to keep us safe on our travels. We decided to stop at Summerhall on the way North, which made Ser Arthur a bit nervous.’

‘Why?’

‘I wasn’t sure. And then we arrived at Summerhall.’

 

*

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea how often I'll be able to update and while I have a good idea where this is going, the details are still to be ironed out...
> 
> This was born out of a conversation with the epically wonderful DrHolland: I don't think the Winterfell that we know from the books is the same Winterfell in which Lyanna was raised. There is no 'civilising female influence' such as that Catelyn Tully brought with her, and so what kind of person is Lyanna Stark - we don't know. And that led to: what if Lyanna was really open about what we think is her opinion of Robert Baratheon? And that led to... and that led to...
> 
> So yeah, DrHolland made me do it.


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